When Nightmares Are Reality
by MeltingMetal315
Summary: What ever happened to their happy family? Did it ever exist? Matthew and Alfred Kirkland live in a life of abuse. When Alfred leaves Matthew to fend for himself, who will save Mattie from the monster their father has become? CHILD ABUSE, NONCON, DARK, AU
1. Chapter 1

**When Nightmares are Reality: CH1**

**A/N: Bad title is bad. Actually, this is more of a prologue than anything. Most of it is dream sequence. Hopefully I can actually finish this fic. Since I'm so terrible with updates. Also, this will be the last thing I write un-beta'd XD Already, I'm putting this as M for abuse. Hinted or not. It's a mature subject :P Anyway, enjoy~**

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_"I love you very much, Mattie," she smiled as she lovingly kissed the toddler's temple. The little boy giggled as he felt his father's hand ruffle the wavy blonde locks that matched his mother's . The boy gasped as his older brother tossed his baseball at him without warning, barely catching it as it hopped between his hands in a fumble. He smirked up at his brother as his brother's face broke out into a grin._

_"Heh, good catch, Matt. Almost as good as me," he teased._

_The family laughed together as they settled on the picnic blanket beneath the green apple tree in the nice park near the lake within walking distance of their white picket-fence home. Their mother, dressed in mom jeans and a soft baby blue cami with a white sweater, pulled back the cover of their picnic basket, handing each boy a hand-prepared turkey sandwich wrapped in wax paper with care. She scolded the elder brother as he shoveled the kettle-cooked sea-salt potato chips down his throat, replacing the bag in his hand with an apple. She smiled and reminded her younger son to eat his fruit as she placed a small tupperware of homemade fruit salad and a plastic child-themed fork in his hand._

_They finished their sandwiches and fruits and chips to discover cookies, pies, and brownies stashed at the bottom of the basket. The father laughed and dabbed at the little boy's chocolate-stained face as he nibble at chunks of brownie. The older brother wiped the cookie crumbs from his face using the sleeve of his brand new bomber jacket, which was a few sizes too big, in order for him to grow into it. He leaped to his feet and dragged his dorky-looking father to his feet as well, tossing the ball in his free hand._

_The father was a historian and a writer. He also owned and managed the small town's little library only blocks from their home and right on the lakefront. On this fine sunday afternoon dedicated to his family, he wore his usual khaki-colored dress pants held up with his favorite brown belt that complimented his brown leather Birgenstock's. He wore his oh-so familiar starched white dress shirt under a dark green patterned sweater vest. Silver wire-framed glasses sat at the usual perch on the bridge of his nose._

_The father made an "oomph" sound as he failed to receive his son's throw. The other three burst into laughter as he stood up, brushed off his pants, and re-adjusted his glasses. The eldest brother laughed as he got ready for another throw._

_Meanwhile, the mother held the youngest of the children in her lap, brushing her soft, gentle hands through his hair soothingly as they watched the sunset over the lake and pointed out the shapes the clouds made._

_But suddenly, the white, fluffy, golden-trimmed clouds began to get fuller and darker and they began to block out the golden warm shine of the sun. The lake began to become restless, large waves crashing roughly against the rocks. The trees began to swing violently as the wind picked up and whistled a haunting tune. Sheets after sheets of rain began to pelt against the little boy's skin, leaving a harsh sting and the boy drenched. The mother was wisped away screaming by the waves along with the remnants of their picnic. The grass shriveled and turned into dirt while the nice, shiny new fence surrounding the park morphed into rusting chain-link fence edged with menacing barbed wire. The lake eventually morphed into the dreary backdrop of the dirty city projects._

_The older brother grew a little bigger, dark bags circling his eyes and a permanent worried frown plastered onto his face. A fresh dark purple and red bruise was painted almost artfully onto the entire left side of his face. His now-worn jacket was patched with some bloodstains. Bandages encased his hands and wrists and part of his head, under his still-golden bangs. His glasses were cracked on one side, almost hiding the dull, hollow look filling his once-brilliantly happy eyes._

_The father was no longer a happy, dorky librarian. In place of his freshly-pressed khakis and sweater vests were perpetually dirty sweatpants and a worn, once-white wife beater with rips and cuts here and there. A fierce tattoo decorated his right arm and even darker bags encircled his eyes. He was no longer freshly shaven, instead, his face seemed prickly and sharp and dangerous to touch. His sandy blond hair, was messy and oily and looked as if it hadn't been washed in months. His happy bright green eyes were now a dark and menacing shade, as if they were intent on the kill. His glasses were long lost and forgotten. Why did it matter when everything was blurry with alcohol, anyway? His fingernails and teeth were yellowed from years of smoking and an angry scowl decorating his face. The thing that disturbed the boy the most was his bloodied knuckles, bruised from rough and careless punches._

_As for the boy, he felt himself grow a bit taller and thin out, his once baby-fat covered body now pale, bony, and almost shriveled. The feeling of a bloated picnic-lunch filled stomach was replaced with a perpetual hunger, eating at his stomach. His glasses were crooked and a bit too small for his face. His hair tangly and dirty with dried mud and a little bit of blood. He winced as he felt the mixture of new and old welts, cuts, and bruises hammered onto various parts of his body. Tears began to form as he felt the ache in his backside and dried blood itching on his thighs. He wanted to shout and wave for his brother's attention, hoping he'd help him, only to find that his dislocated elbow was casted and set into a sling. He shrieked when he hit the ground after trying to run, finding his knees bandaged cheaply. The rough dirt reopened a newly-healed cut that went along the boy's cheek, staining the dirt near his face with red. The moment he looked up, he saw the tip of his father's boots collide with his brother's ribs. Two screams filled the air; one of pain, and one of hopeless fright._

"Shhh! Matt! Mattie! Wake up! Matt! Matthew!" Violet eyes shot open mid-scream, immediately registering the head of blond and blue filling his eye-sight.

"A-Al…" Matthew whispered, still dazed and confused after being yanked from his nightmares back into reality.

Alfred sighed in relief and leaned back with a sigh, covering his eyes with his calloused hand.

"Nightmares again?"

"Yeah," Matthew rubbed his eyes with cold fists, pulling off the itchy old blanket at the same time. "The one where it starts with that one picnic in the park and then it turns into dad bea-"

"Yeah, I know which one," Alfred cut in before Matthew could remind him what he's been through. Stale silence filled the little room save for the steady plop of the multiple leaks in their makeshift roof.

Matthew shifted uncomfortably and decided to spit out what was haunting his mind.

"Do you think I was loud enough to give away our position to Father?" The boy bore an expression of pure terror and worry.

"No. He's too drunk to comprehend anything. We're safe. Besides, if he comes, I'll protect you. Because I'm-"

"The Hero, I know, Al. You know I don't believe in fairy tales an-"

"Your brother." Al said biting his lip, dismissing Matthew's ramble. Matthew mustered a bit of a smile and nodded.

Giving his brother a small kiss on his temple, just as their mother used to, older brother snuggled closer to younger brother, draping a protective, secure arm over him.

The younger brother sighed with a mock sense of safety. He'd sleep a little bit easier for the rest of the night.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews motivate me to write faster! ;) **

**MM15**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry, I take forever when it comes to updates, I know, but hey, that's life. You can thank Paramore and Bullet for my Valentine to keep my mind focused while I work….. -is easily distracted- But this did take longer than it should have for it's size, I just had a lot going on ****and it's not because my boyfriend and I broke up for a stupid reason or anything like that… sad face** **But uh, yeah, here's the next chapter! Some charrie development~ Then we can go into real plot.**

**Also, I'm going to be writing some one- and two-shots of some noncon!RusAme and noncom!RusCan if you want to stay tuned for that later…. you can blame the kink meme…. -_-**

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One of the things Matthew had gotten quite used to was the steady plop of a leaky roof and the moldy smell of mold and rotting wood greeting him in the morning. You see, once their father had begun to beat Matthew in addition to

Alfred, the older brother made certain to make sure that his baby brother, at least, had a place to hide on those dark nights when that monster stumbled through the door, the stench of intoxication exploding throughout what they called a home. So, Alfred had cleared out the attic, pawning what he could and throwing out the rest. It being a poorly built projects house, there wasn't much insulation and it wasn't very well built, but it was enough to protect him and his baby brother. The best part being that the ladder to the attic was a pull-down ladder hidden in the closet in the room that the boys shared. He made sure that there was plenty of food, water, blankets, flashlights and all the other things they would need. The most important being the emergency medical supply set that Alfred had managed to buy, scraping together every last penny he could get his hands on. But it was worth it, because that's probably what they used the most. So, on most nights, since most nights were Arthur's "get-drunk-and-forget-everything" night, the brothers would make sure that they had a clear escape to their hideout.

Anyway, on this particular morning, Matthew awoke to the familiar scent of their hideout, shivering under the damp, threadbare blanket he snuggled to during the night. The boy yawned and ran a hand through his way hair, frowning as he felt that one lone curl stubbornly stuck up, as usual. He sighed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with one hand as he felt for his glasses with the other. The cold air filled the boy's lungs, causing his asthma to kick in and make him cough on his next inhale.

"Alfred?" Matthew called out, hoping the familiar teenager was around. When nothing but the sigh of the wind answered him, the boy decided that his brother must have been at work. Biting his bottom lip, Matthew folded up his blanket, put it in its proper place, and prepared himself to sneak back through his house in order to get to school on time. He frowned as the pain of his empty stomach shot throughout his nervous system. He elicited a moan, but brushed it off, hoping that maybe he could manage to pickpocket some lunch money today.

He pulled his usual red hoodie over the shirt that he had worn throughout the weekend and brushed off his dirty jeans, not remembering the last time they had been washed. He slung his brother's old, worn windbreaker over his shoulders, not minding that it was two times too big for him, and instead smiling gratefully to himself that it'd be able to keep him a little bit warmer. Thinking quickly and glancing at the old clock adorning his bedroom wall, he grabbed his patched up backpack that Alfred had salvaged from his own childhood and rushed through the halls, to the front door. He reached out to turn the doorknob and took a step-

"Matthew, where do you think you're going?"

The boy's breath caught in his throat as his face paled to a ghostly white. His eyes began to water as he slowly pulled the door shut and turned to the direction of that menacing voice, his eyes downcast to his beat-up sneakers. He took a deep breath and sniffled before daring to speak.

"I have to get to school, Father, or else I'll be late…" he whispered as the first tear slowly marked his cheek with its watery stain. He fiddled with his hands, still refusing to look up. He winced as he heard his father's heavy footsteps approach him.

The boy gasped as the felt his head yanked back by his hair. He was forced to stare into his father's bloodshot eyes. The tears flowed freely now.

"You selfish, good-for-nothing bastard, I am your sickly father and this house is a fucking bloody mess and it's your duty to care for your parent and to keep this piece of shit clean and spotless before you spoil yourself with education. Back in my home, education was only given to those who had the fucking money to afford house servants to do their fucking work for them. But does it _look_ like we have servants to do _your_ bloody fucking work? _Hm?_ You stupid waste of life!"

Matthew bit his lip as he felt the hand paint his already-bruised cheek with its loud slap. He sniffed and coughed, finding it a bit harder to breathe.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please, father, please, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! Really! Please! I'm sorry! Father!" Matthew curled up into a ball on the ground once he felt his father's fists land stinging punched to his flesh. He gasped as he felt the toe of a shoe dig into his ribcage. He coughed and sputtered and gagged, gasping for breath, which became harder and harder to obtain. He dug through his pockets until he found his inhaler and quickly gave himself a few spurts of the stuff before another choking kick landed.

"I can't even bear to _look_ at you, you disgusting piece of shit. Go ahead, leave me. Just like your mother. Just get the fuck out of my sight, damn it, Marie!"

Matthew's eyes widened at his father's mistake, but decided that now was his best chance of escape. Gathering his strength and his breath again, he scurried out the door and hurried to school. He probably already missed first period and he had to come up with a really good excuse for these new bruises and his obviously tell-tale face of tear stains and puffy eyes… damn.

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Thanks to Alfred's multiple nighttime and weekend jobs, Matthew attended the private academy about a mile from their home on the borderline of middle class communities and the projects. The academy, of course, was in the center of the middle class neighborhood. Alfred, being as intelligent as he was, attended the same academy o a scholarship. Matthew knew the importance of doing well in school. One was that he couldn't fail his brother, who had done so much just to get him in. The other being that he had to be good enough to somehow go to college one day so he wouldn't end up leading a life of unemployment and gambling his savings away… in other words, one similar to his father's. He'd sworn to kill himself before he turned out like his old man.

So, despite everything going on in his life, Matthew made sure to it that he did well in school, whether it meant getting another beating for staying out too late at the library to do his work or going hungry by hiding in the attic all night to study.

In total, Matthew was still only a B-average semi-honors student who didn't do much else _or_ have friends. This, of course, would forever puzzle his teachers who figured that having no life other than schoolwork would result in a child being a genius, not a kid who got mostly B's and only had English and French as honors classes. But both Matthew and Alfred knew that it was because the thing that occupied the boy's time besides school was cleaning the house, getting groceries, a shady part-time job from the strange shopkeeper on the corner that used him as an everything-errands-boy, and most of all, his father's anger.

Alfred, who wanted to major in psychology one day, figured that it was because Matthew was the spitting image of their mother. He had her hair, her eyes, her nose, her ears, and not to mentioned had a pretty petite, feminine figure, being young and prepubescent. Not to mention the times when Matthew would be reciting his French while doing chores in hopes of memorizing passages that were assigned to him at school. He sounded just like their mother in that high-pitched, but smooth voice as he spoke her native language.

This of course probably triggered Arthur's memories and screwed up view of what had happened regarding their mother. His triggered anger was then directed at her mirror image in a little boy's form, their youngest son.

So Matthew, despite the beatings and insults and neglect made sure to keep up with school in order to keep his brother's love, since that was all he had left.

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**Reviews make me work faster!**


	3. Chapter 3

I should have warned you guys, but, I am NOT a consistent updater. I'm terrible at it because I'm lazy and I put them out when I feel like it. But hey, better late than never. So yeah. Here's a nice 2k word chapter. Coming up over winter break will be some more long chapters. And it's not like it's because I only _just _figured out exactly where I'm going with this. But I promise not to upload anything until I get to at least chapter 10 on this story. So yeah, first priority here~ ENJOY!

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Matthew shuffled into his second class, English, during the middle of the teacher's lecture. He shielded his puffy face behind his blond curls. Nervously, he tugged the hood of his red hoodie tight over his head and set his gaze towards his feet. He placed his tardy slip on his teacher's desk and quietly made his way to his lonely desk in the back corner, mostly away from the other children. Matthew didn't really like the other kids too much. He didn't really hate them, but he resented them. He knew it wasn't their fault that they could take their family and their meals and clothes and friends for granted. But he couldn't help it. He hated it. He hated watching all these kids from wealthy, well-to-do families come to school to have fun and throw away their half-eaten lunches, made with their mother's love and care.

Matthew bit his lip in frustration and rested his head on his desk. He could catch up on notes in the detention that he had just earned because of his sixth tardy to this class since the quarter began a month ago. Hopefully, Arthur would be too drunk too realize that Matthew came home late. He could do without another of his father's rages for today. Perhaps he could find Alfred after school and they could go home together. Al could hold off their drunken father just fine.

"Mr. Kirkland, could you please tell us whether this sentence is in passive or active voice?"

Matthew looked up when he heard his name called. He squinted towards the board, but his eyes still stung and his vision was somewhat fuzzy with his glasses cracked. "Er… No, sorry, sir."

The teacher tutted and marked something in his grade book before calling on another student. Matthew hardly cared, though. He was too tired to worry about anything at the current moment. The rest of class was a blur as Matthew spent his time tracing his pencil against the bad words (the type Arthur used with him) that were etched into his desk from the outcasts before him. The bell blended in with the ringing in his ears. The bumps and shoves he got in the hallway accentuated the new bruises hiding beneath his hoodie. He ignored the children who sneered and whispered as he passed. He had long learned to ignore the pig-nosed faces and jeers. Matthew, in his solitude, had learned to lock himself into his own world.

By the time lunch rolled around, Matthew's stomach was cramping with hunger, but he didn't have money and he most certainly did not bring one from home. All the kids in his grade were sitting in cliques in the cafeteria, dissecting today's lunch special of the sandwich their mother made them that very morning. Matthew watched from the cafeteria doorway with longing in his eyes. Longing for what, he wasn't sure. Food? A mother to make him sandwiches? Friends? Happiness? Maybe all of it, he thought. He didn't think _too_ hard about it, as the pounding in his head was becoming unbearable. Matthew decided to try and clear his mind by taking a walk outside.

The fresh air cleared his senses for a moment, the crisp, cool, air shocking his body with the sudden change of temperature. Wind washed over him, brushing his hair out of his face and clearing away his worries for a single, refreshing moment. But then his body adapted to the cool air and the quick high that came with a sudden change faded and Matthew was left with an aching stomach, a pounding headache, and the warmth sucked from his body. He shivered and decided to go back inside despite his other symptoms. He wished he had a couple dollars to at least run to the pharmacy and buy a single anvil to numb the pain that wreaked havoc in his skull. He braced himself against a locker. Everything blurred in and out. The bell resounded, marking the end of lunch. The masses of students poured into the halls, the noise level going up rapidly. Matthew braced himself before finally, everything went black.

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Matthew awoke to a blinding white light overhead. He squinted and turned over with a moan. He still felt a low pulsing in his head, but not nearly as excruciating as before. Wait. Matthew sat up with a jolt and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, forcing himself to focus. He realized his glasses were missing and swore under his breath.

"Ah, Mr. Kirkland, you're awake. You passed out in the hallway after lunch. Your blood sugar was low and you had a nasty concussion on your head. Here, take a candy." The nurse pressed a jolly rancher into his hand. Matthew glanced it before greedily popping it into his mouth.

"Matthew, how did you get a concussion?" The nurse asked casually. Still, Matthew panicked and immediately turned white. The nurse didn't notice, as she was turned towards her desk, filling out paperwork. Matthew choked a little before carefully answering her question.

"Um… well.. I, uh… fell. I fell." Matthew nodded, trying to be convincing. The nurse studied him.

"You _fell_? You got a giant bruise on the topside of your head because you fell? Matthew, dear, you can tell me if you got into a schoolyard fight or something. We can discipline the student that did this to you without them finding out your identity. Really, Matthew, we don't want you to get beat up." The nurse gave him a worried, yet encouraging look. Matthew shook his head vigorously.

"No, no, no. Alfred, that's my older brother, and I were um, playing hockey the other day and I made a dive at the puck because I was playing goalie and stuff and I hit my head on the goalpost. R-Really." Matthew gave her as much as a reassuring look as possible before adding, "I still feel kinda tired. Can I rest some more?"

"Yes, of course, Matthew. By the way, your brother is at work and was going to pick you up at five, but when we called home, your father said that he'd pick you up at four." The nurse smiled sweetly before turning back to her paperwork. She didn't notice the way that Matthew's face drained of all color remaining and how a terrified frown took over his features. Matthew turned away from the nurse and clenched his eyes shut, hoping to get a little rest before Arthur came an killed him. He was half glad that he had passed out because he would have an excuse to stay home tomorrow when he was bloodied up and broken. But then again, he wouldn't even be in this mess if he hadn't.

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In truth, Matthew didn't get the extra sleep. He laid awake for an hour before the nurse gently shook his shoulder. He turned over and sat up abruptly at the sight of his father. He flinched at the dirty look he shot towards Matthew when the nurse turned her backed on them. When she turned around, he feigned a sickeningly sweet face. He showed false concern and a perfect balance of sweetness and gratefulness. Matthew wanted to throw up. Arthur took Matthew's backpack from the nurse and handed Matthew his coat as the boy got to his feet.

"Hello, Matthew, let's get you home." His voice was almost gentle. Almost caring. _Almost._

"Th-thanks, f-father. For g-getting m-me." Matthew shivered. The nurse shrugged it off as being cold, but Matthew and Arthur both knew that it was because he trembled with the terror of what was to come. Matthew couldn't remember the last time Arthur had been this sweet to him… and so _sober_. That scared him the most. The last time he was this sober was before Mom got sick. And that wasn't since Matthew was a little kid. He could barely remember back that far. The pair left wordlessly, Arthur keeping a firm grip on Matthew's shoulder. The further they got from the nurse's station, the harder his grip became. Matthew whimpered and Arthur dug his nails in harder. Once they were outside the building, Matthew almost began to cry in fright, but bit his lip instead, wishing to hide his fear as much as possible.

Arthur roughly shoved him into the front seat of the beat up Toyota that he kept for the sole reason of pub-crawling. The floor was lined in bottles and fast food bags. Matthew spotted a couple boxes of unopened condoms, a box of viagra on the dashboard, and empty bags of white powder, which he assumed was drugs. Alfred had made sure that he knew what things were. Better to be in the know than ignorant in the life they had, he always said. Sure, a twelve-year-old shouldn't know the purpose for condoms or recognize drugs at first sight, but Matthew wasn't a normal twelve-year-old who could hide behind his mother until he moved out.

"Matthew, do you realize what you almost did?" Arthur growled as they pulled onto the road. Matthew obediently shook his head no. He had a good idea of why Arthur was pissed, but he decided not to risk anything and instead chose to play dumb.

"You almost made the school think that I abuse you. And you know what they would do if they thought that I abuse you, don't you, Matthew? They would take you and Alfred away from me. And you know what would happen then? They would split up you and Alfred and you would never see each the ever again. And that would crush Alfred. But besides Alfred, do you know what that would do to me? Well, after taking away my children, they would put me in jail where I, being so small and weak, would get beaten up and raped. And do you want that to happen to your own father? You know what you would have done to me? After making me lose everything that ever meant anything to me, you would make the school think that I can't take care of you? And you would take away my Alfred and the little I have left and put me in a dangerous place where I will be violated and tortured. All because of you. Do you want that, Matthew? Do you want to hurt me _and_ Alfred? Do you want us both to be crushed and our family separated all because of you and your little lies? Well?"

Matthew chewed at the inside of his cheek. Tears threatened to fall, but he wouldn't let his weakness show, not in front of Arthur. All of that, his fault. Guilt overcame him.

"N-no, sir," Matthew whispered.

"Good. We'll talk about your punishment at home. You really screwed up, boy. You could have cost us everything. More than you have already," Arthur paused and studied his son again. "I really, truly miss her, you know. Marie, I mean. We had such a perfect family together. Utter perfection. Marie, Alfred, and I. And the you came along. It wasn't bad at first, having a baby around. But we could only afford so much with my measly job. I was stupid. We were financially unstable. We started getting cheaper things, food too. And that's what got Marie sick, the cheap food. She caught multiple illnesses and died of them within a few years. Marie didn't have to die, you know. It wasn't her time."

At this point, Matthew began to cry. He couldn't take it. He didn't mean it. He didn't! He never could handle guilt well. All he wanted to do was to please his father. If only for a moment. He couldn't handle failure well. He just wanted one moment in his life where his old man showed that he appreciated him, if only a little. But Matthew knew now that that could never be achieved. He would forever be nothing but the weapon that killed the love of his father's life, in his father's eyes. He would never be able to please.

But Matthew stopped after a moment. He realized what Arthur was doing. Arthur knew that guilt would overcome Matthew and he'd be extremely easy to control and take power over. Which was what Arthur really craved. Power. Even over his twelve-year-old son. Alfred had told Matthew about their father's lust for power and Matthew never forgot anything Alfred ever told him. Matthew decided to pout instead, no matter how much t would cost him later, because he wouldn't let Arthur win completely. He wouldn't let him play to all his weaknesses. He _refused_ to submit.

Arthur just glared at him, probably more upset than before. Oh yeah, he'd pay for his defiance and he'd be sorry. Matthew just gulped.

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I feel terrible for what I'm going to have done to Mattie in the next chapter. I really don't mean to torture him so much OTL But the next chapter should be out soon. I already have it half written. But remember...

_Reviews_ make me work faster! ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Matthew moaned, dragging himself up with just enough energy to make it to the bathroom. Everything hurt. His vision was splattered in red. He couldn't tell if it was from the blood stained throughout the room or from the blood filling his head. His head killed like a bitch, the pounding wouldn't stop, the tears… were there tears? His face was already too wet to tell the difference between blood and tears. He couldn't tell if there were any left. Hell, was it even possible to get tears past the swollen tissue hiding his eyes? Pain, pain, pain, that's all that flashed through his mind.

Hissing, Matthew scooted into a sitting position against the sink. He clutched at his head, tugging at his hair. He had to focus. He had to think. What happened? How did I get here? What time is it? _Am I dead?_ Think. Think.

Matthew squeezed his knees closer to himself as he concentrated.

_Arthur shrugs off his button-up shirt and wipes his hands with it… They're red, the liquid staining them is red. Of course. Blood. There's more… it's a puddle. It… it leads towards you, but your vision is blurry, you can't say for sure. Wait, it's under you, it's _from _you. Yes, that make sense. Arthur says something, but you can't understand him. Ringing, ringing. Ugh, that noise! Make it stop! A scream escapes you and you immediately regret it. Arthur looks surprised… at least you think so. Blurry, so blurry! It all just melts together, the shapes. Blonde, green, white, red, so much red. You realize a second too late that a foot, a dark scarlet-splattered boot, is set course for your face. The pain is instantaneous. Hot! White hot! The molten shapes burst and a white, a burning hot white conquers your vision. The ringing get louder, higher, you cover your ears. The white, it's blinding, you can't see! It's hot, much too hot, white white hot. You squeeze your eyes shut. Make it go away! But it stays, the ringing and the white. You feel moisture dripping down you face. You know what it is. You touch your hand to your face and you try to look at your hands but you can't see. The white! That damned white! Is it tears or blood that you feel stream over the hills of your cheeks? You grind your teeth, which only increases that ringing. But you can feel the heavy presence lift. Arthur is gone. You should be happy, relieved, but you are not. You can't take it. You decide that the ringing is too loud and the white too hot; it's too much. You want silence and a cool black. You know of a way out and you follow your instinct. Your head smashes into the wall almost _too _perfectly. You let out a breath that you didn't know you were holding before you smile into the darkness._

Matthew rubbed at the spot on his head that he knew sported a proper new bruise. He reached around the counter above his head and grabbed a familiar bottle. Removing the cap, he shook out three of the little orange capsules and swallowed them dry. He took a few deep breaths in hopes of normalizing his heart rate. Okay, so that's how he passed out… but how did it escalate to that point? And what time was it? Was he missing school?

_You run as fast as you possibly can with the fresh gash in your calf and the nasty purple backs of your knees. You hear the footfalls behind you. They're calm but quick. Thud. Thud. Thud. You stumble over the things skewed across the floor and duck as you hear something whizz through the air, barely missing your head by a mere few inches. You hear your father's voice. It's sober, so terrifyingly sober. It's calm with an undertone of hate and fury. Cough, cough, gasp. Breathe, breathe, breathe! You hack as you feel your throat tightening. No, no, no, not now! You have to hide, you have to make it. You duck into the hallway closet and push the door closed. Immediately, you lock it and begin pushing things up to the door. Boxes, cleaning supplies, a broken chair. Finally, you wedge a piece of broken wood under the door and sit your self against it. There's been banging and yelling and smashing on the door, but you've tried to ignore it. You pull the chain for the light and try to find something to focus on instead of the yelling and the rattling on the knob and the pressure on your back that comes with each resounding bang. You rip up the hem of your tee shirt and wrap it gingerly around the gash, tying it off at the end. You give the bruises a poke and wince at the moment of pain. Banging, banging, shouting, shaking. You hug your knees and bury your face in them and try to block it out. But it's too hard. You try as hard as you can to pull out of reality and into your dreams, but with every shout and threat, you're yanked back into your nightmares. You wipe your eyes because you know that crying is overrated. But through the glistening of the tears, something catches your eye. There's a small box in the corner. It looks old, but the condition is mint and it looks so neat and cared for. Replacing your glasses, you realize that it's labelled. It's labelled with you name! But the scrawl is unfamiliar. You kick the box towards you and quickly shuffle through the contents when you hear a particularly loud crash behind the door. Quick, quick. But it's hard to go quick because in the box are pictures and letters and tapes. There's writing on the back of each photo. Things like 'Alfred and Matthew Fishing Trip 2003'. There are diary entires and letters to an unborn Alfred and an unborn Matthew. There are doodles on the sides and little designs penned onto the labels of the tapes. The tapes are labelled with a date and a subject. The younger they get, the more serious the topics. They were last messages, last thoughts. And… and one was addressed to 'My Dearest Matthew'… dated a week before her death. A warm tear rolls from your eye. But then there's a shout and the sound of wood splintering and you panic. You tuck her last letters, one to Arthur and one to her sons collectively, into the hip of your underpants where it's least likely to get ruined or discovered. You then replace the little box to its original place and tuck the tape behind some sheets and boxes on the shelves; you'll come back for it later. You decide to face your fears and accept your fate sooner than later. With a deep breath and a glance towards the tape's hiding place, you yank open the door and brace yourself. The pain is almost instantaneous._

Matthew reached into his pants and withdrew the paper he felt brush his fingertips. Yes, it was that handwriting. He smiled and decided to retrieve the tape later that night. But for now, he stood up and splashed his face with warm water. He grabbed a towel from the pile on the ground and soaked the end. He went to work cleaning himself off, starting with scrubbing off the dried blood on his face and dressing those wounds. He examined his face in the cracked mirror and chewed at his lip. He shook his head and began to work down his body, cleaning off blood and wrapping cuts. But yet, how did he get in that whole mess in the first place?

_A hand grips your ear and tugs you out of the car. The other hand grips the back of your neck and the one on your ear moves and grabs a knife, which finds a place at the small of you back to act as a threat. You stumble over your own nervous feet and the road as you're forced to walk faster than you really should. He's muttering things about you, Arthur that is, but you block him out. This is just another nightmare and you can leave the reality whenever you want, you just have to focus on your imagination and the fantasy you created in your mind. You grumble in annoyance as you almost fall over and the knife pokes into your back, but Arthur retaliates with a choking squeeze on your throat, so you try to keep quiet. He's says something, but all you don't hear it. He repeats himself and points to the couch. You sit and look down at you feet. He's pacing in front of you now and he's talking. Talking about how you ruined him, how deep in debt the family was, how much Alfred hated him now, how much he hates you. You stiffen and grind your teeth. You're mad. There's a hot bubbling in the pit of your stomach and your fingers fidget and clench at your sides. You squeeze shut your eyes and try to remain clam. He's telling you how much of a waste you are, how no one loves you, how Alfred resents you, and how much you are like your mother. Then he goes off on a rampage of how Alfred is a delinquent and how you're probably a little whore because that's what your mother was like. He tells you that French is such a dirty language and that he's ashamed that you speak it and speak it well. He tells you that he hates the language because your mother spoke it and your mother was a whore and that all whores probably whispered dirty things in French all the time. He's saying that it's only due time before you turn out on the street, too, half naked and letting anyone with a little bit of spare change touch you. Because you're just like your mother. Because that's what he says your mother was like. Because you look so much like her and you talk like her and sing like her and smile like her and laugh like her and everything about you screams HER. Because you are not Matthew. You were never Matthew. Not to him. To him, you are what's left of Marie. You ARE Marie. And he hurts and blames himself. The guilt weighs so heavily on his head that it obscures his memories of her. He wants the guilt to be gone and he wants the longing to be gone, so he pretends that she was a terrible person. But you… You are just like her, you remind him that she was not a whore, she was not unfaithful, she was not evil. And he hates it. Hates you. Hates the memories that are dragged with him. So he punches you when you stand up and defend her. You tell him flat out that she was not a whore. You tell him that she was a good person. You tell him that she loved you, that she loved him, that she loved Alfred. You tell him that she spoke French so beautifully that the birds would stop and listen and then you repeat it in French. You tell him that she would never have hurt you or Alfred. Not like he does. You tell him that you wished it was him instead of her because she would never put her sons through hell like he does. But your tirade is cut short when he lunges at you and a fist crashes into the soft curve of your face, further purpling the area. You fall backwards when a foot collides forcefully into your shins and you panic. You don't have time to get up so you begin to crawl backwards. His face is dark and he's smirking. He raises his foot and you shut your eyes. It smashes into the backs of your knees. Of course. So you can't run from him. But you have to be able to run to a safe place until Alfred gets home, so you kick back at him. You don't have anything to loose, he was already pissed that you talked back, fighting back wasn't much different. So you kick upward, hoping to knock him down. You succeed when you slam into his left knee and he stumbles onto the ground. You take the opportunity and spring up in hopes of running. But as you're about to take off, you almost fall back down when a hand grips at your feet and there's a sudden searing in your calf. You don't have time to dwell on it, so you wiggle off the shoe and take off. Your breath hitches because you know that he's right on your tail. You focus and you run._

Matthew wiped off the last of the new wounds and dressed them before sitting down and tentatively peeling off the cloth that hugged his calf. He hissed as it peeled off part of the scab. Immediately, he sprayed it with antiseptic, almost screaming at the stinging, and wiped the surrounding area up with an alcohol wipe. His finger nimbly unrolled the last bandage and he rolled it on as tightly as he could. He'd ask Alfred to take him to the hospital later. They'd tell the doctors that it was a schoolyard fight, as usual, and then they'd be on their way. Alfred would have to put up with Arthur afterwards, since they always used his alcohol money for hospital trips, but this time was important. The nurse said he had a concussion, and he had lost far too much blood for his liking.

The boy examined himself once more in the mirror before turning towards the door. He listened for a moment to see if Arthur was around. He deemed the coast clear and carefully creaked open the door. Looking both ways before proceeding, he hurried towards the closet he hid in earlier.

The short distance he had to walk sickened him. Broken furniture, things thrown all over the floor and blood stains everywhere he looked. He simply swallowed and tried to focus on the fact that he was going to hear his mother's voice again.

Matthew kicked open the closet door and went for the sheets in the corner. He groped around and shook some cloth out before finding the tape, which he held close to his chest. He then grabbed the little box and proceeded towards his room. He glanced out the window and noticed the car gone. Of course. Arthur was getting drunk for when he had to deal with Alfred. Matthew sighed and climbed up the ladder to the attic. He settled on the windowsill overlooking the street and turned towards the box. He picked up the tape recorder and examined it, turning it in his palm. The plastic cover flipped up and Matthew fit the tape into the pegs. He took a deep breath and his finger hovered over the play button but it wouldn't press down, so he curses himself and places the recorder to the side, picking up the letters instead. The first one is to his father.

_June 20, 2005_

_To the love of my life and my best friend, Arthur Kirkland,_

_I remember the first time I ever met you. I had just moved to London and my English was incredibly broken. Do you remember that? I doubt you understood half the rambling I did when I met you. It was my first week since arriving and my dorm was a mess, boxes were still unpacked and things just scattered around. It was dusty and stuffy because I hadn't a chance to tidy up yet, so I decided to take a stroll. I somehow found myself at the library on the uni campus and I wandered into the classics section. I had read plenty of Shakespeare, after all, I was a literary analysis major. But of course, the versions I read were in French and the double entendres and the hidden meanings and rhymes were lost in translation. Thus started my Shakespearean Project… _our_ project, I mean. But I was searching for _A Midsummer's Night Dream_ and I couldn't differentiate between titles and versions. The English confused me. So I spent forever huffing and looking at different versions and trying to make out the prologues and annotations in each version and I almost gave up, but then there was a soft cough behind me. I turn and there's a blonde man only about 5 centimeters taller than me. He looks a bit disheveled and a little messy. I saw dark circles around his eyes and ink staining his right hand and I know he's been up for many hours, writing, reading, something of the sorts. His clothes, however, are polished and professional despite the crinkles from wear. He asks me something in English but I don't follow because his accent is too thick and he speaks too fast. I reply in a mixture of broken English and French that I'd like to find a certain copy of _A Midsummer's Night Dream_, and that I don't speak English well. The man's face lit with understanding and he replied in smooth French that he'd like to help me. He picks up the version I asked for and he slips another copy on top. It's a version with the French and English side-by-side. I smiled at him and thanked him. He then asked me first if I'd like to get a cup of tea and I agree. We hit it off immediately. It turned out his name with Arthur Kirkland. He had been studying at the same uni as I for a year now. He was studying writing. He wanted to be an author and a playwright and so many other things. He loved books and literature. It was perfect. He wrote and I analyzed. He also spoke French and offered to help me with my English. Soon enough I was fluent and in love. _

_It was a year after I had graduated and I remember you got a job offer in the States to write plays for a company. I went with you and we got married. My family was long forgotten in France and you hadn't a real family. So we went and we started fresh. We started anew in a small New England town on the seaside and you took up the job with pride. I worked at the local library as a side job while doing my real work from home. And pretty soon we had our first precious baby on the way! We were both excited and we scraped together to buy a real house with a yard near the library and we made up a nursery, oh it was such fun! Alfred, oh my sweet Alfred. He looked just like you, still does, the little bugger. But then the company closed down and no one was ready to move back to London. So we stayed and we took ownership of that little library and I worked harder with my online work and we were doing fine. And then we got news of another little baby on his way! Oh my, I remember your reaction. Startled, scared, but still excited. You began writing books and we had a large influx of income and we were living it up. I remember you got your first check from sales and you bought three new suits, one for yourself, one for Alfred, and a baby-sized one for Mattie. We updated the nursery and bought new things and everything was wonderful. Matthew came and he was absolutely stunning, a beautiful, beautiful baby. And he was such a sweet baby, hardly cried and slept through the night, very different from Alfred. Look at him now, such a sweet child. He reminds me of you. Quiet, likes books, polite, gentle, caring, never fights back with his brother. I really wonder where Alfie gets his spunky personality, sometimes. I guess he's just making up for the three of us, bookworms we are. _

_Our life is so perfect. We have two bright young boys with all their future ahead of them. And you and I are quite happy together. But I'm so sorry, my love, because nothing is ever perfect and unfortunately, I have to be the one to screw it all over. I… I have cancer. It's in my liver. But my blood is so rare and unhealthy so there aren't even any available donors. I'm dying. And I'm leaving my boys. I'm so so so sorry. I don't want to leave. I can't. My family needs me. I'll never be able to see Alfred make the football team or Matthew win an essay contest. I'll never watch them drive or graduate from school. I'll never get to meet their first girlfriends or help their fiancés pick things out for the weddings. I won't be able to smother my grandchildren with gifts and stories. But what pains me is that I won't be able to grow old with you and watch our children grow together. _

_But I have to trust you, Arthur. I know you can do it without me, raise the boys into good men, I mean. You're such a good father, you know. Never forget that. These boys will be what you make them. You must must must remember to be kind and gentle and encouraging. Children need to be nurtured and loved. But they also have to be fairly and justly disciplined. Knowing you, you'll probably let Alfred get away with murder and Matthew with massacre. You're a tough one to get riled up. I can never imagine you raising your voice at either of the boys. You love them too much. But I won't be there to play bad cop when Alfred sneaks out to parties and lets his grades slip, and when Matthew hacks into the school's mainframe to change his A- to an A+. You'll have to be able to take on both roles. And I have nothing but faith in you. You're the best father the boys could possibly have. Though, I suggest enrolling Mattie in cooking classes as soon as possible. He'd like it and so would Alfred. I'm sorry, love, but you simply cannot cook for your life. I have a feeling that Matthew will inherit my love for the culinary arts. I already taught him to make pancakes. He's a natural. _

_I'd give anything to be able to be there with you and the boys but my time is running out. You'll read this letter the day I die, or perhaps never. I'm going to give it to you today and I'll tell you not to open it until it will speak for me, and you'll be confused, but you'll understand as soon as I'm gone._

_Please remember me and keep me in your heart, but I want you to know that there's always room for another woman after me. I'll be gone and I want nothing more for all three of my boys to be happy. I'll never be able to rest if I know that you're lonely and unhappy because of me. We all have to let go at some point. I'll understand and be encouraging all the way if you find another nice woman to settle down with. _

_I love you and I'm sorry._

_Marie_

Matthew threw the letter to the ground and sobbed into his sleeve. Everything that his mother wanted from Arthur was nonexistent. He was still lonely and hated women, he hated his children, and neither Alfred or Matthew had a full opportunity at a future anymore. Everything that their mother told Arthur was ignored. He didn't understand how his father could have ever been the man that his mother described. Sure, he had a taste of that man when he was a little kid, but that was seven years ago and he couldn't remember what was a memory and what was imagination. He wiped his eyes and rubbed the fog from his glasses as he picked up the next letter, the one to him and Alfred. It was unopened. He'd be the first to read it. Matthew took a deep breath and tore the paper open.

_June 25, 2005_

_My dearest sons and the sunshines in my life, Alfred Fabrice-Josué Kirkland, and Matthieu Guillaume Kirkland_

_I'm sorry I couldn't write you both your own letters, but I'm growing weak and it's getting harder for me to write. I wish I could be there with you two to watch you grow up and accomplish big things._

_Alfred. Oh my big boy. You are such a bright boy, you know. You teachers always complain about how you never do your work and how you only run you mouth off about football and baseball and cars and video games, but still somehow manage to ace every last one of your tests. I'm telling you that it'll help you so much in the future to actually do your work. You'll go really far. Put your brilliance to work and you'll accomplish great things. You have your entire future ahead of you. I only wish that I could be there to wish you luck when you try out for the football team or to coach you through the English portion on your SATs. I wish I could make you sandwiches and pack your lunch in a brown bag forever. Oh well, you'll have to put up with your father's sandwiches until Matthew gets access to a proper culinary class._

_I want you to watch over your brother. Things will be hard but you have to remember that he's your little brother and he'll always be there for you no matter how much you yell at him and shove him around. He's your family and you two will only ever have each other once your father is gone. He's fragile and petite, Matthew. He'll get picked on because he's not like you, he's shy and quiet and won't have many friends. He'll be an easy target and might come home one day with a black eye. It's your job to protect him, okay? If someone punched your baby brother, you march yourself straight to that child's house and beat the bloody hell out of them, understand? That's an order from your mother, love. But you have to be close with Matthew because he needs you._

_And Matthew, my sweet little darling. I am so sorry that I won't be there in person to watch you go to school for the first time or get your first good grade. I want to be there when you're practicing for the spelling bee or when you need help with your first crush. But I want you to know that I will always be there with you in your heart, okay? I love you so much, Mattie, you're such a good little boy and you'll grow up to be such a good, kind person, I just know it. When you're older, you probably won't remember me as well as your father and brother do. I wish I could be in your life longer to create more memories with you. I want you to keep up with your studies no matter what, alright? You have a lot of potential to be successful, you're already quite brilliant. It's also be good for you to learn to cook delicacies, mon cher, because your father burns everything he touches and your brother prefers everything with an extra pound of salt. One of you two need to take on my love for food, you know, and Alfie is a lost cause. Oh, I wish I could at least be there to make sure you're getting a proper French diet. I'm also leaving it up to you to take care of your brother, as well. I mean, Alfred's an outgoing and rebellious spirit. He'll be doing a lot of things to try to rile up your father, I imagine, so make sure he stays on track, alright? As for your father, I imagine he'll miss the French music I play throughout the house. It's your favorite, too. I've kept those records with me since I left France. Play them for him sometime, okay? I'd tell Alfred, but he never cared for la musique de mon pays. He always found the melodic etudes boring. _

_I want both of you boys to keep up with your schoolwork, especially your English and your French. Life will be tough, it is for everyone, but especially for you both. Remember to stay true to yourself and stay on the right track. Listen to your father, he's only trying to do what's best for you, even if it seems unfair at the time. I love you both very much and I will always be in your hearts._

_Your loving mother, _

_Marie Faustine de Bonnefois Kirkland_

By the time Matthew finished reading, tears wouldn't stop. There was no way he'd be able to listen to that tape today. Not if he valued his soul and his emotional state of mind. He wiped his face with his forearm and put everything back into the box. He looked around and placed the box on the top shelf of the cabinet where they kept supplies. Matthew grabbed a blanket and wrapped himself in it, replacing himself at his spot at the windowsill. He curled into a ball and sighed.

Why did the sky dare to look so pretty?

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**Please review! I'd really like feedback on the style that I wrote the first part in because I was experimenting with technique and artistic value and all that stuff. Just trying to spice it up. And there's barely ever any second person present used, so I'd like to know what your thoughts are on that.**

**I'm kind of disappointed with the slowness of my plot right now. I made a giant story map for this story now and I'm going to be kicking in the actual plot next chapter, so updates should become faster. These first few chapters were just a bit unorganized and thus harder for me to write. I've been reworking this chapter for like a month OTL**

**Remember, reviews make me work faster! ;)**


	5. Chapter 5

After the day that Matthew found the little box, he shoved it under the floorboards in the attic and didn't touch it, at least, not in five full months. Not until the day when he found out that his life was going to change drastically, and most likely for the worst.

Like any other of the handful of calm Saturdays in the Kirkland household, Matthew made up a decent breakfast of pancakes for the three of them and then brought in the mail. Arthur was locked up in his bedroom, hungover, as usual, and Alfred sat eagerly at the table with his cup of pure black coffee. Matthew shuffled through the letters, furrowing his brow when he came across a rather official looking envelope addressed to Alfred. He set the rest of the mail at their usual spot on the counter and turned to his brother, a quizzical look crossing the boy's face before handing the envelope over.

Alfred's face lit up just slightly when he saw the envelope. Just enough for Matthew to notice, but not enough for anyone else. Matthew only frowned more as his curiosity kicked in.

"Well?"

Alfred hushed him as he finished reading through the encased letter. He smiled a little bit more with each passing second. Matthew only pouted behind him, trying to catch a glimpse at the content.

"Matt… I… I just got offered a scholarship for all four years of college! An academic scholarship to study psychology! This is wonderful! Oh my god, this is so great!"

Alfred rushed to the younger boy and grasped his arms. But the wide smile quickly faded when he realized that his brother's emotions weren't mutual.

"Mattie, do you know what this means?"

Matthew's blank mask crumbled and his lips began to quiver. As soon as he felt a wetness creep into the corner of his eye, he stood up and ran out the door.

Alfred was quick, however, and followed chase. As soon as he saw Matthew round the corner, he knew exactly where he was going.

:::::::::::::

The park was silent. There were never kids around this bend of the city. Alfred and Matthew would always laugh at the fact that the city was stupid enough to put a park in the shitty, gang-ridden area. But nonetheless, there was a muddy, grass-less block in the middle of the dreary cheap housing that had a rusty metal slide, a worn tire swing, and a creaky old merry-go-round. Matthew would laugh sometimes and say that it reminded him of the park in Harry Potter that Harry seems to always run away to. When he was younger, he used to pretend that he was like Harry Potter. He used to pretend that there was hope for a better life. That Arthur wasn't really his father, but his evil uncle who hated his real parents. But after waiting a month after his tenth birthday for his acceptance letter from Hogwarts, Matthew knew that he was just playing a lie. He hated fantasy novels after that.

But Matthew still tended to run away and sit on the tire swing when he felt emotionally unstable. Even though it had been two years since he pretended to be Harry Potter. It was somewhat nostalgic, and he needed that.

So that's where Alfred found Matthew, sitting on the tire swing, looking on towards the city skyline, his face blank with the exception of tear streaks. His eyes were dry now.

"Mattie, you know I only want to do what's best for you, right? In the long run, I'll be able to pay for everything. And history will never repeat itself with eather of us, because I'll have money to take care of us both."

"I know." A sigh.

"It might be hard in the meantime, but it _will _get better. I promise. And I never go back on my promises."

Matthew coughed at that. He shook his head and plastered a fake smile on. He knew that Alfred could see right through it, but he appreciated it when his brother pretended to buy it.

"I know, and I'm happy for you. Let's… let's just go home."

The walk home was silent and the tension was unbearable. Matthew immediately went up to the attic and Alfred stayed behind to give him space. The little box was retrieved and pictures were cried over, paper was crumpled and un-crumpled, letters were read multiple times. But the tape player kept it's dust. Matthew didn't even glance at it.

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The rest of the summer was spent somewhat joyously between brothers, but Matthew, underneath it all, felt hollow, bitter, incomplete. Like he wasn't really there. Nothing Alfred tried to do could change his attitude.

It only confirmed that Alfred was really leaving him.

::::::::::::::

Matthew sat on the front steps with his head hung in his hands. The warmth of the setting sun hugged his bare arms, but the cool breeze pricked it away. Matthew swore and dug his face back into the tangle of his knees and arms. He ignored the footsteps behind him. He ignored them when they stopped next to him. He ignored the creak of the wood when the person bent down next to him. He only looked up after he felt a gentle hand ruffle through his hair.

"Mattie, please talk to me."

Matthew tried to scowl, but his frown faltered and he fell into tears. He let himself fall into Alfred's waiting embrace. He wrapped his arms around him and buried his face into the familiar scent of his brother's jacket.

"Alfred, I'm going to miss you so much. Why are you leaving? You know that I _need_ you. Why are you leaving me? Alfie, I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't. I can't live here. What am I going to do? Alfie, do you realize? I can't do this without you. Please, please, please, please. I thought you said that you'd never ever leave me. I thought that you'd always protect me. Why did you lie to me, Alfie? Can't I come with you? Can't I escape with you? Alfred, please! Please…"

Alfred sighed and hugged his little brother closer to him. He rubbed circles on his back and stroked his hair lovingly.

"I'm sorry. I-"

"No," Matthew sat up and violet met blue. "No, _I'm _sorry… for that outburst… for my attitude… I… Please go to college. Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself. And you need to take care of yours. You'll be the best psychologist this world will ever know," a melancholy smile graced his face. "I've been so selfish. You need this, I need this, we all need this... Good luck! Email me, okay? You better get going… You'll miss your flight."

Alfred opened his mouth to say something, but Matthew shook his head and waved him off.

"Go. I'll be okay, I promise."

Alfred nodded and smiled as he turned towards the cab. He waved, but Matthew only looked on.

It was funny to see that cab fade away into the falling sun.

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**That might be one of my fastest updates yet! Hopefully I can keep this pace rather than the old one. I really appreciated all the reviews this time around and I suppose you can thank those for pushing me to finish this chapter up.**

**A few things on this chapter: **

**-It went really quickly, sorry about that. But I think we both would like to go quickly through one chapter and get on with plot than spend multiple chapters on non-important stuff, right?**

**-I'm not completely happy with this chapter :P I don't know why, I'm just not very satisfied with it OTL**

**-This chapter was also really short, but I'm keeping its length because the last chapter _was_ 5,000 words after all.**

**-Alfred is not out of the story! Okay, he basically is if we're talking in a linear fashion, but if you know me, I lovelovelove flashbacks ;D**

**-Someone new is showing up next chapter that I think you'll all like. Can anyone guess who? ;)**

**Reviews make me work faster! ;)**


	6. SemiFiller: Chapter 6

**Not really a chapter, this is more of a filler... but like, an important one? So a semi-filler, if you will. The next _actual_ chapter will be the one with the _awesome_ new character in it. This chapter's new character is a little bit different...**

:::::

Matthew kicked at the dirt on the sidewalk as he took his time to get to Francis's shop. He had a rough day at school and he wasn't exactly looking forward to running errands for the shopkeeper. He shook his feet to try to get the dirt off the bottoms of his sneakers. Sighing in defeat, he pushed open the familiar, grimy, glass door and slipped the sign to the OPEN side.

"Mr. Francis! Hello?"

"Ah! Matthieu! Come, come, I'm in the back!"

Matthew sighed and threw his backpack over the cashier counter as he made his way to the back. There, he found the Frenchman sitting on a stool with a magazine. Yep, one of _those _magazines.

"Matthieu, mon fils, how was your day?"

Th boy flinched at the nickname. He wasn't anyone's son.

"Fine, fine, I guess." He looked away.

"I've known you long enough to differentiate your truths and lies, you know."

Matthew sighed and rolled his eyes. "It was horrible, as usual. Same guys trying to pick fights with me, nothing new. How's the store doing? I flipped the sign."

"Don't try to change the subject." Francis stood up and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "How's it going at home?" A serious look took over the man's face.

"No, we're not talking about this again. It's just peachy, alright?"

"How's your father treating you?"

"Do I need to answer that question?"

"Matthieu, do you have any new bruises?"

"Maybe."

"Please show me?"

Matthew sighed and pulled off his tee-shirt. His entire torso was painted in purple and yellow blotches. Francis's eyes widened. He frowned and pulled the boy into the back of the shop. Matthew let him smear the cool cream over his abdomen without a word.

"You know, you could always come live with me. I have a spare room upstairs. I can even bribe your father to not ask questions."

"My father will never allow it. Especially to you. You're French. Besides, I can take care of myself. That's what I promised Alfred and that's how it's going to be. Because I can keep my promises, unlike him," Matthew spat. He looked down at his feet.

"You're not taking care of yourself if you're allowing Arthur to do this to you."

"So what? Call the cops, I dare you."

Francis shot him a glare. Matthew had found the supply of various drugs in the back of the storage room a few months back and it was revealed that Francis was a dealer. And they both knew it was too risky to get cops anywhere near the store.

"I'm only concerned for your health, cher."

"If you're so concerned, you should give me a raise and stay out of my business."

Francis laughed. "I can barely feed myself, thank you very much."

Matthew pulled his shirt back on when Francis turned away.

"So how are you doing with the Alfred problem?" Francis's tone was more solemn.

"I'm not talking about that, either." Matthew took his proper place on the stool behind the counter. Francis leaned over the other side of the counter and looked him in the eye. His hand moved to land on Matthew's cheek, but the boy snatched the man's wrist and threw it back, away from him.

"Don't touch me."

"Ah, but Matthieu, I was just reading-"

"Then you shouldn't have been reading them." Matthew turned away and busied himself with organizing the cigarettes on the shelf display.

"Just a little kiss?"

"No."

"Sil vous plait?"

"No."

"But Matthieu, I'm so horn-"

"NO!" Matthew whipped around and glared at his employer with his arms crossed. "I am in no mood for your perverted come-ons. I've had a horrible day and everything hurts like hell. Please, Mr. Francis, have some control and leave me alone for today."

Francis rolled his eyes and turn away. "Fine, have it your way. I left a list of things I'd like you to do. It's next to the register. I'll be out. I have drug sales to manage."

Matthew let out a breath of relief when he heard the door shut.

He got to work on the list. He tidied up around the shop, did inventory, went through the stock, and then waited at the counter. A few customers trickled in, but it was slow, as usual.

He looked up when he heard the back door open. Francis was counting a pile of dollar bills.

"Hello, Mr. Francis. Welcome back."

"Oh, Matthieu! Say, how old are you?"

"I'm thirteen. I'm in eighth grade, remember?"

Francis leaned over the counter and rested his forearms on it.

"You want a better income, yes?"

"Always."

"Well, if you'd like… How should I put this? I have some clients who would pay good money for, um, you know…"

"Um, no I don't, sorry." Matthew frowned.

"Well, you're a beautiful young boy and you're just in the proper age range, and well, all you have to do, is uh, you know, mess around a little, nothing too much."

Matthew frowned further but then his eyes widened when he realized what Francis was suggesting.

"Are you asking me if I want to whore myself out to strangers?" Matthew was shocked and disgusted. Sure, Francis gave him a couple twenties for a make-out session or a feel-up now and then, but he _knew_ Francis. His clothes stayed on. That was different.

"Mon cher, you don't have to, but it's good money and you're still just a boy, so you can keep your underwear on. It's just an option. What, with Alfred gone, you don't have that steady income anymore, right? Look at your shoes! They have holes in them and yet they still pinch your feet! An hour of letting some man touch you while I'm right outside the door will make you $200 richer. You're a kid, and a pretty one at that, so you can get so much for so little!"

Matthew only glared at him. The money seemed good and it was a tempting offer, but he couldn't stoop that low.

"I'll think about it. No promises."

Francis smiled and winked. He handed him a fifty dollar bill.

"Go on home. Think about it and tell me next week. And keep the change from that bill. It's a gift. No buts."

Matthew sighed. "Thank you, Mr. Francis, I'll see you next week."

He shrugged his bag over his shoulder and kept his eyes down as he walked down the block to his house.

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**Okay, I just needed to squeeze in a proper scene with Francis… for plot reasons… winkwink. I hope that I wasn't pushing the pervertedness, but it has to be there. I kept rewriting it because I couldn't decide on Mattie's experience level... OTL But um, yeah. Next chapter will be out on Sunday! It's already written and everything, I'm so proud, heheh XD**


	7. Chapter 7

Matthew glanced at the moving truck parked across the street. He found that odd. Why would anyone who could afford a moving truck get a place out here in the bad side of town? He shook it off. It didn't matter and he didn't dwell on it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and hurried to the grocery store. He kept his head down and his pace quick. You never knew what could break out around here.

"Hey!" Matthew jumped at the sound of a young voice behind him. He turned around immediately, not familiar with any other children in the neighborhood. His eyes widened when he saw a boy wearing dark tinted sunglasses speeding towards him on a pair of old roller skates. Matthew moved to duck out of the way, but it was too late. Soon, he found himself toppling on the sidewalk, tangled with the boy.

The boy untangled himself and scooted away, pulling off his skates. He scratched his neck before standing up and pulling Matthew up with him.

"Sorry!" The boy chewed the inside of his cheek. He quickly fixed himself, though, grinning and straightening out his shades. He stuck out a hand. "My awesome name is Gilbert Beilshmidt, I just moved here!"

Matthew blinked in disbelief. He glanced at Gilbert's proud smile then at his hand. He hesitantly took it, but Gilbert gripped it tightly and shook it vigorously.

"So, what should I call you?" Gilbert patted him on the back a bit roughly. Matthew only stumbled a little and looked back at his feet as Gilbert swung an arm around his shoulders.

"Matthew… Matthew Kirkland," he mumbled. Gilbert frowned.

"What's wrong, birdie? I don't bite! I promise!" Gilbert chewed at his cheek again, withdrawing his hand and returning it to his side. "Sorry if I scared you, Matthew, I lost some control on those skates… Do you live around here?"

Matthew coughed. He feigned a smile and a dry chuckle. Gilbert didn't buy it, but he didn't get a chance to say anything. "Yeah, I live right across the street, if that's your moving truck back there."

"Awesome!" Gilbert smiled again. He pushed his shades back up his nose as he felt them slip. For the first time, Matthew notice the peculiarity in them. He just noticed that it was cloudy out.

"So you go to Hemingway Upper School?" Gilbert smiled hopefully.

"Eh, I go to a private school. My brother pays- I mean, _payed_ for it.

Gilbert frowned. "Man, that sucks. Well, we'll still see each other, since we live on the same block, right?"

"Uh, yeah, I gue-"

"Oh! I know! How 'bout I make it up to you taking you for some ice cream! You know, for falling on you like that. Kesese. Just nothing over three dollars, because I'm saving up for going on dates!"

Matthew thought for a moment before agreeing. Arthur would be out for a while, anyway. The groceries could wait. And when was the last time he had some ice cream? He smiled and nodded.

"You're a quiet one, birdie. But that's okay, because my mutti says that I'm a talker. And talkers need listeners, so that's perfect!"

Matthew grinned the rest of the way to the ice cream shop as he listened to Gilbert tell him about his family and his ambitions. It wasn't long until they made it to the shop, where Gilbert ran up and ordered for them both, then proceeded to pull out the chair for Matthew. Matthew couldn't help put blush with a short cough.

Matthew was about to mumble a thanks for the ice cream when he glanced at Gilbert. He raised an eyebrow as he followed Gilbert's averted gaze. He almost burst out laughing when he saw the other boy's target. Matthew covered his mouth when he saw that Gilbert was staring at some girl a few years older than them. Gilbert wiggled his eyebrows at the girl, who in turn, frowned and flipped him off, whipping back around to her friends with her arms crossed. That's when Matthew lost it, waves of laughter escaping from his lips.

"Like you could do better," Gilbert mumbled, his ego dented.

"'Sokay, I'll pass on the ladies," Matthew chuckled.

"Ah, so you play for the other team?" Matthew just barely caught the wink under the sunglasses. The smaller boy blushed.

"Well, I mean, I guess so? I'm not sure yet?" Matthew coughed and looked away. "Um, let's not talk abou-"

"Aw, birdie, I was just wondering if you were in my league," Gilbert stuck out his lip in an attempt to appear adorable.

Matthew sighed and shrugged. "If you really _must_ know, then all my experience is in that particular field, yes. Now moving on-"

"SCORE!" Gilbert grinned.

"I am _not _interested in a relationship right now, especially with someone I just met!"

"That's cool, birdie," Gilbert reverted to sitting back in his chair and attempting to lick the ice cream from his spoon seductively. But he snapped back into his grinning, foolish self after he pulled out the spoon with a pop. "You should come over sometime. I can show you the new video game I got for my gameboy!"

Matthew was confused for a moment. Wasn't gameboy ancient? Whatever. He agreed to Gilbert's invitation. The guy seemed pretty nice, and maybe it would be good for him to find a peer to hang around. Having Francis as his only companion couldn't possibly be good for him.

Gilbert grinned and did a little fist pump under the table. _Score!_

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**And it was indeed Prussia! You guys are good guessers, jeez! **

**But sorry it was almost late! Heheh, it's ten at night on Sunday night, here, so I didn't lie, necessarily. But I read through the chapter I previously wrote, and I realized that it clash with the storyline I wrote earlier. So I had to rewrite it, but I really liked the scene I wrote in the original chapter where Gil was hitting on Mattie, so I tried to stick it in there, hope it didn't seem too out of place. **

**Reviews make me work faster! ;)**


	8. Chapter 8

Every morning, at least when Matthew happened to walk to school on time, Gilbert would wave to him from across the street and run across to catch up with him. Matthew didn't avoid contact, nor did he put in any effort to meet up with Gil, but when the boy came bouncing behind him, he slowed and had some good chats with him.

However, Matthew never met up with Gilbert outside of those walks. The boy would invite Matthew over to his house or to go to the movies or the arcade, but Matthew always refused. His father would never allow him, nor did Matthew want to risk getting caught if he were to sneak out. His father had been more tense than usual and Matthew wasn't one to test his boundaries.

So their friendship stayed at the level where Gilbert would tell Matthew about something, Matthew would give a short response, and Gilbert would teasingly hit on him a little bit before saying goodbye when their paths diverged.

::::::::::

It was a usual day.

Matthew ran out of the house, running a little late, but just in time to see Gilbert giving his mother a goodbye hug across the street. Matthew let the other catch up to him. They talked and Matthew continued to school. A normal morning.

At school, Matthew struggled to ay attention. He ducked when he felt spitballs whizzing towards him. The goody-two-shoes girl who sat next to him turned around and told the boys to stop. But Matthew knew by now that she was only asserting her power as the class representative, not actually standing up for him. As soon as the lunch bell rang, he ran to the kitchen and snatched up one of the plastic-wrapped sandwiches when the lunch ladies weren't looking. He tiptoed outside where he ate under the bleachers so no one would see him. Just like he did every day.

He walked to Francis's store, where Francis went out and Matthew sat at the counter for a few hours, bored as usual. When Francis returned, he promised to run to the cash station tomorrow and pay the boy the next day. Matthew told him not to worry about it and walked back home. Like any other day.

But when Matthew opened the door to his home, he felt like something was a little off. He heard faint shouting from his father's room. No one ever came over, though, so he figured it must be the telephone. Acting as stealthily as possible, Matthew tiptoed upstairs and picked up the other phone. He held his breath to keep from revealing himself, but he almost gasped when he realized who it was that his father was talking to.

"You bloody twat, how dare you accuse me of not taking care of my own child! Of course I'm treating him fairly!"

"But I know how you get when you're drunk, especially with Matthew. Me, not so much, I know that. Just please tell me that he hasn't had to go to the hospital."

"Ha! Like I'd ever take him to the hospital, anyway! Nothing I do to discipline that horribly behaved child will send him to the hospital, I know my limits. Besides, everything I give out, he deserves it one hundred percent."

"That's not true. Matthew is really good kid. And you get upset at him over the stupidest little things, especially when you're drunk. And you always go overboard with punishing him. And for what? For tripping on his shoelace, he deserves a kick to his ribs?"

"I will administer discipline as I see fit."

"I hope you understand that as soon as I can, I'm taking custody of him."

"Fat chance. I'm his father. I have lawyers. You're just my child. You hold no threat to me, Alfred."

"Look, all this aside, I'm coming home for Thanksgiving, okay? I want to see Matthew and make sure he's doing okay."

"Always for Matthew, never anything for your father. What type of children have I raised?"

"I hope you realize that my father is the man that raised me up until I was eleven. After that, I've only known of a monster that took his place."

Arthur was silent for a moment. Matthew almost jumped when he heard him cough awkwardly.

"I'll expect you for Thanksgiving, then."

A click and the phone went silent. Matthew placed the phone back into the holder and shuffled into his room. He barely glanced at his history textbook before giving into the tug of sleep.

He could barely stand the two weeks until Thanksgiving.

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**Lame, short chapter is lame and short :P Sorry it's so late, I'm working on some other fanfic ideas, too~ **

**I heart reviews~ XD**


	9. Chapter 9

**One, this is really late, sorry, was having relationship problems and totally forgot that I never updated. **

**Two, this chapter took on a mind of its own. I'm really not sure where I'm going with this anymore. It was supposed to be a somewhat happier chapter but I guess my own mood and state of mind affects what I write :P Get ready for a giant angst-fest. **

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When the doorbell rang, Matthew ran down the stairs, tripping over a couple steps in his haste. He almost ran straight into his father, who was already beginning to unlock the door. Matthew waited patiently to the side, glancing slightly at his father, who gave him a quizzical look, before looking back at his feet.

The door swung open to reveal a familiar person. At least, at first glance he was familiar. This boy still looked tired, but the bags under his eyes weren't as dark and his eyes looked more rested. His hair was brushed neatly and gave off a nice shine. His face was void of any of the bruises and cuts that usually took residence on the boy's thin face. His shirt was a quality cotton polo, which matched well with a pair of khaki-colored slacks, something that Matthew was definitely not used to seeing on his own brother. But the thing that surprised Matthew the most was the genuine smile he sported, something Matthew hadn't seen for a good few years.

"Mattie!" The younger boy felt himself scooped up into a bear hug and swung around.

"Gosh, Matt, you've already grown so much in like what? Three months? Must've hit your growth spurt, look, your pants are too short for you! I'll have to take you to the store later," Alfred chuckled, placing Matthew back on the floor and ruffling his hair. He stood up straighter and turned to Arthur.

"Hello, Father," Alfred said, more businesslike and formal than his greeting with Matthew. He calmly stuck out his right hand. "It's been a while. Good to see you."

"Welcome home, Alfred," Arthur nodded curtly before walking towards the living room. He glanced back over his shoulder. "You'll have to run to the store with Matthew. There's some money in the kitchen drawer, by the keys. I'm not sure if it's enough, though," he paused, "Sorry." Matthew almost gasped. Arthur proceeded to flick on the football game without another word.

Alfred smiled a little, shaking his head. He turned back to Matthew.

"C'mon, broski, we've got some catching up to do," Alfred said as he went to to the kitchen, shuffling through the keys drawer. He sighed at the three ten-dollar bills, but took them, anyway.

Matthew stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Alfred start to get into a nice new car parked outside their house.

"Huh? What's wrong, Matt?"

"Alfred, you said that we should never steal! How could you? And a _car_? Really?" Matthew went off on a rant, not noticing Alfred shake his head or approach him.

"Matthew!" Alfred grasped his brother's shoulders and forced him to face him. "No, Mattie, I didn't steal the car. This is why we need to catch up. It's mine. I promise. Okay? Now let's go get some food before the stores close for the holiday."

:::::::::::::

"Yeah, so now I have a little job at the psych ward that pays really well. All I have to do is play nurse and sit it on some shrinking now and then, but I get payed a nice amount. Hence the car," Alfred smiled, passing a can of cranberries to Matthew.

"I'm majoring in psychology, just like I told you, but I'm also minoring in law, specifically familial law," Alfred dropped his voice to a whisper. "Don't worry, Mattie, as soon as I can, I'll get you out. I promise. You just have to wait a little longer while I get things sorted out and save up some money. Because believe it or not, Father has some deeper pockets when it come to things involving law. He has connections, friends, money saved up for that sole purpose. There's no way I can win a case right now because I know that he has forged psychiatric and medical documents for you. There's ones that claim that you're a pathological liar, ones that claim that you're bullied often at school. There's ones that say that you're clumsy and often get hurt day-by-day. There's fake police records that say that you're always getting into trouble and getting beat up by neighborhood kids and gangs. He has dirt that says that you're incoherent at times, that you often space out. And I think he's having one made that states that you have a mental disorder in which you create a false reality. Father's not only the man that he seems to be, he has strong connections and he's determined to keep your custody. I'm not sure why. Maybe just to spite me. Or perhaps you remind him so much of Mom, that he loves you and hates you all at the same time. You _do_ look exactly like her, you know. Even the one little freckle under your chin. Mom had the same one."

Matthew lugged a large turkey into the shopping cart as Alfred began to go off about how much he resembled their mother. This was definitely not the first time someone, especially Alfred, had compared them. Matthew sighed.

"Who's this connection that Father has, then? There's no way he enough money to come up with that many false documents. I mean, I'm sure he has plenty of money stocked away from Mom's insurance, but he can't possibly pay for that many illegal _and _convincing documents. And I'm pretty certain that if he has so many on me, he's got to have at least some on you, too, Alfie."

There was a noticeable change in Alfred's expression. Matthew figured that he wanted to avoid that subject. Well, he brought it up in the first place.

"Mattie, we have an uncle." Alfred looked away.

Matthew only blinked. He wasn't surprised in the slightest. Both boys knew that both Arthur and Marie grew up in families with a good handful of children, but only they immigrated to America from each of their respective families. Matthew also knew that Marie had lost contact with her family sometime after moving to London and that Arthur had problems with his family… or something like that. Marie had mentioned that "he hadn't a real family" in one of her letters, after all.

"And?" Matthew pushed. He knew he must have sounded annoying at this point, but he felt that he had the right to know.

Alfred sighed and turned towards the checkout line. "Look, I'll tell you in the car, I don't really want to discuss that part in public."

::::::::::::::::::

Alfred coughed awkwardly when they were both settled into the car. Matthew kept giving him pushy glances.

"Come on, Al, please tell me."

Alfred grimaced and shook his head. "Fine, okay. Allistor MacDougal. The best criminal defense lawyer in the country. The man who has never lost a case out of thousands for accused murderers, abusers, drug lords, organized crime, you name it. Never lost a case in the sense that each one of his clients has been proven innocent no matter how much evidence was presented against them. He seems to find an alibi for people who have clear footage at the crime scene. He can somehow change all the records to say that a person's blood type is AB, when they were originally O. It's insane. It's by all means illegal, but they can never prove anything he does as illegal. And the bastard is our uncle. Can you believe it?" Alfred frowned, glaring at the road ahead of him. "And apparently, he pities Father because he used to abuse him. Now that's something I have a hard time believing. That that horrible man we call our father was actually beat up and tormented when he was a kid." The young man shook his head. "Now the fucker feels bad about ruining Father's childhood, so he's helping his brother become a fucker to fuck up _your _childhood. It's so stupid. It's just a cycle and MacDougal is letting it continue. He doesn't want to repent. He's just guilty and feels indebted to Father. What an idiot. I can't believe that we're somehow related to them, the idiots that they are."

"Well, then our solution is easy, Al." Matthew looked at him as if it was as simple as a sheet of homework or something. "We just have to get on Uncle Allistor's good side," Matthew grinned deviously.

Alfred stopped the car and glared at his younger brother. "Absolutely not. You don't understand how he thinks, Matthew."

"And you do?"

"Yes! Of course I do, I've been learning about psychology since-"

"Since when? Since three months ago? Since a couple years ago? _What do we have to lose?_ Nothing he could dish out to us could be any worse than what Father does. You don't get it, Alfred. You don't know the pain that I go through every single day. You don't understand what's it's like to not remember what it's like to be loved. You don't realize that Father's gotten worse. You don't know about how many days of school I've missed or how hard it's been for me to go to the hospital when I need to. You're not even a real shrink yet. What if all MacDougal wants is a good fuck, huh? I can do that. You don't know what my life is like, Alfred. Father's always liked you best, anyway. _Always._ You never wake up half-conscious in a pool of your own blood. You never had to learn to stop gushing blood wounds when you were only eight years old. You don't know what it's like to have to work dirty jobs just to make sure you don't starve. Just so that you don't have to strain your brother's shallow pockets that much. I sugar coat everything, did you know? No one likes me at school, no duh. And I'm a horrible student! I don't know where you came up with the idea that I was good at school. I never had a chance and you knew that. So what difference does it make if I go up to this MacDougal guy, offer him a blowjob, and end up being beaten to death. He can even call up Father so he can beat me, too. And that's little worse than what already happens." Matthew choked back a sob, whipping his head around to look out the window, instead. Alfred hung his head, pushing his weight into the back of his chair, his eyes covered with a hand.

"Matthew, you're not a prostitute. I talked with Francis. Don't pretend you are."

Matthew pouted. "So? That doesn't mean that I'm not willing to offer myself up if it'll ultimately set me free."

"_You don't even know what a blowjob is!_" Alfred shouted, scowling at Matthew. Tears stains painted his cheeks. "Look, I know you, Mattie, you're not just a regular old kid. But you don't have to live like that. You don't deserve it. That's why I try so hard to give you a childhood. But it's hard because we have a shitty excuse for a father who hogs the little money we get to buy booze. I can't control that. I've tried and tried. I care so much about you, Mattie, you gotta know that. I know that you're not a prostitute nor that you want to be. It won't come down to that, because I won't let it. I'm supposed to protect you, Mattie, because no one else can and no one else is going to. Please, please, please don't throw away all my work, all my efforts, everything that I've put into _your _well being. What do you know about the jobs that I've done in order to keep you in a good school? _What do you know?_ You're ignorant and naive because I kept you that way. You don't really know anything about prostitution. Don't pretend like you do, Matthew." Alfred glanced at the clock. An awkward silence overtook the atmosphere. Alfred sighed and turned to his brother. "Mattie, I trust that you won't go looking for MacDougal, right?"

Matthew didn't respond right away. He closed his eyes and took a breath. "Yeah, I'll stay away from him."

Alfred let out a breath of relief. "Thank you. Now we better head home, or else the turkey won't cook in time."

Matthew nodded, smiling.

:::::::::

Thanksgiving dinner started off pleasant. Alfred talked about how he was doing at college, throwing in hints that the things he chose to study were to ultimately aid him in prosecuting their father. Arthur didn't talk much. He only commented on how the food tasted lovely, causing Matthew to blush. It was his first compliment from his father. Arthur also commented on Alfred's studies now and then, but the conversation was mostly between Matthew and Alfred. It was weird to all three members of the table to be able to sit together with a nice meal (a rare one, as it was mostly paid for by Alfred) and just talk about things. To have Matthew talking about his daily life and laughing freely in front of his father. Though, Arthur did scowl when Matthew mentioned Gilbert to Alfred. The college student was happy and encouraging for his brother, of course, but his father was highly against it.

"Matthew, you're grounded." Arthur cut into the conversation, putting his fork back onto the plate with a slice of pumpkin pie on it. Alfred frowned at him.

"Why? Because he made a friend? Oh come on, Father, all children need friends in order to be healthy."

"Shut up, Alfred. Matthew, I forbid you from talking to that boy any further."

"You're kidding me, right? Matthew has never had any friends in his life. Let him just walk to school with this kid."

"Matthew, you're not allowed to walk to school with this boy. It's for your own good, I bet he just wants to get into your slutty pants."

"Father! He's barely thirteen, lay off. Mattie's a smart kid. He knows the difference between friendship and lust. Seriously, Father, what the hell is wrong with you?" Alfred stood up abruptly, knocking over the chair. "Mattie, go do the dishes," he shouted a bit harshly. Matthew scurried off.

"Alfred, how dare you talk to me this way?" Arthur growled between clenched teeth.

"Well, how dare you accuse a thirteen-year-old of being a slut? Were you even listening to him? He's just making a friend. Is that so wrong? Would you have called _me _a slut for making friends the new kid across the street when I was thirteen? Not even, how about now? If I were to make friends with a new classmate at college who just transferred in and I just so decide to walk to class with him, then am I a slut? Are you going to ground me, too? God damn it." Alfred paced in a circle, rubbing his temples. "Why do you do this?"

"Stop it, Alfred. I am your father and I refuse to be talked to in that manner. Go to your room while I talk to Matthew." Arthur crossed his arms calmly. Alfred, however, was livid.

"_Excuse me?_ I am eighteen years old. I'm a legal adult, do you understand? You can't _order me to my room!_ And I'm especially not leaving you alone with Matthew at your mercy right now."

"This is my house, Alfred, with _my fucking rules._ When you're under my roof, you do as I say, do you understand me? I will talk to Matthew _alone_ if I so please."

"Fine." Alfred growled. He walked out of the dining room.

"MATTHEW!" Arthur burst into the kitchen, where said boy was scrubbing at the dishes. He gulped before shutting off the water and turning around to face the man. He barely flinched when a slap impacted his cheek. "Finish cleaning and go straight to your room. If you're out here for more than five more minutes or if I find your cleaning job to be insufficient, well, the outcome won't be much in your favor. Understood?"

Matthew didn't move or say anything for a good ten seconds. Arthur backhanded the other cheek.

"Okay, okay, okay, yes, I understand, I'll do it, please don't hurt me, please. I'll do it. I'll do it. I understand," the boy began to sob. His tears, of course, were not acceptable to his father. A hook to the boy's stomach and a kick in the shin enhaced that.

"Shut up and get to work, then." Arthur scowled.

"_What the hell are you doing to him?_" Alfred lunged at the man, but he ducked just in time. "What did he do to deserve any of that crap you just put on him? You're a fucking bastard," Alfred grunted as he felt his arm twist in his father's grasp.

"Matthew, go to your room right now." Arthur barely made eye contact before Matthew slipped up the stairs.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Alfred?"

"That was unfair, unjust, and cruel! You're at least three times bigger than him. Do you get that you're seriously hurting him? Don't you care? Don't you have any emotions?" Alfred grabbed his father's collar, about to punch him but the man twisted out of his grip and landed a good few blows to his son's face and chest.

"Just go, Alfred. Get out of my house. You're obviously better off in the real world. Stop trying to save your past. If I were you, I'd cut off all ties to this place. Me and Matthew included, and just go, do you get me? Go become a shrink. Look, I'll try to think before I do, but just leave. Please."

"I hope you realize how much I hate you. But I love Mattie more than anything in the world and I will die protecting him. If I have to deal with you for a few more years before I can save him, then so be it. I made a promise to my mother and I'm going to keep it."

"_Will you fucking shut the bloody hell up with that shit!_" Arthur screamed, beginning to throw random things from the table. "Matthew is _my _son, not yours. And don't you _dare _try to take from me what is _mine._" A sharp knife just barely grazed Alfred's arm as he tried to dodge it, knocking over more things from the table and onto the floor. "_Now get the fuck out of my house. And don't you even dare to think of ever stepping foot on my property again, do you understand me?_" Arthur stood panting, brandishing a fork pointed towards his son. He gasped and slid to his knees upon the floor. It was pitiful to say the least.

"Fuck you." And with that, Alfred turned his back on his father and his home. He opened the door and slammed it behind him. Matthew was too busy hiding in his closet with his hands over his ears to watch Alfred leave again. He stayed there until morning, ignoring Arthur's angry screams calling his name and the telephone ringing, probably Alfred. It was time to face reality and he had to prepare himself. Things were about to change.

But for the better or worse, he didn't know.

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_**R&R please~**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Okay, so sorry for this late update. I don't even really have a good excuse.**

**And it's kinda short, but that's where I wanted to end this chapter. I'll try to get the next one out sooner.**

**However, I've been going back and editing old chapters (for grammar and little things like that) so those will be fixed up for here and then converted in to PDF to be posted on my deviantART account, so that should take up some time, but getting out a new chapter holds more priority. So yeah, enjoy~**

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As soon as Matthew walked through the door, his nostrils were filled with a thick cloud of smoke. He squinted, the dark gas stinging his eyes. He wheezed and felt his inhaler in his pocket for reassurance before running upstairs to the semi-safety of his room. Ever since Thanksgiving, after his father and brother got into a huge argument, resulting in Alfred storming out, Arthur Kirkland had not been doing well, to say the least. For Matthew, there were ups and downs to this.

Arthur had begun to bust out his hidden box of forbidden things. Matthew knew that the smoke filling the air wasn't simple tobacco. And he also knew that the little hints of white powder in the kitchen weren't sugar. Matthew was just grateful that there weren't any needles. For now, anyway.

Because of Arthur's high spells, Matthew was able to do more things behind his father's back. When Arthur was high, he was pretty damn high. He usually couldn't remember anything from that period of time. Nor could he think straight enough whilst under the influence to notice Matthew's absences. The boy took advantage of this and took time to go to the library and study, run errands, work extra hours, and most importantly, hang out with Gilbert more.

Gilbert had proven to be a really good friend. Once they started actually hanging out together, Gilbert stopped hitting on him and they fell into a very close, platonic friendship. Matthew was grateful for that. The only other person he had to confide in was Alfred, who was gone. Matthew didn't tell him everything about his life. He kept it at that he and his father didn't get along too well and that his father was very strict. Gilbert only told him that his parents were also very strict and expected a lot from him. But he was keeping more back, Matthew could tell. But he would wait for Gilbert to tell him, as Gilbert was doing with him.

But the positives didn't fully make up for the negatives. Arthur was usually high, but there were those moments when he came back down and had a sober moment before going back up. And in those moments, Arthur was faced with all of his troubles again. They were fewer, but the beatings were worse. As soon as Arthur remembered his messed up life, he went looking for Matthew. He would blame the boy for everything that was wrong in his life, taking out all of his anger on the boy. Often times, Matthew would call up Francis, who would either take him to a hospital or have one of his friends take him. Sometimes he'd walk over himself. A couple other times, he'd be knocked out cold and wake up, having to call an ambulance from blood loss. The excuses were endless. Bullies, a fight with a neighbor or a friend, he fell, he got attacked by some dogs. Matthew refused to tell the doctors the truth.

Matthew sighed and tried to focus on his school work. His head hurt too much to concentrate. He removed his glasses and massaged his forehead, finally deciding to go get some aspirin. He went over to the bathroom and downed a couple pills and glanced at the mirror. He looked like mess. His hair was tangled and greasy, little specks of dried blood around his forehead. A bandage was wrapped tightly around his forehead, padded over a gash on the left. Bruises marked up his face and his arms. He knew that the oversized white dress shirt hid away more bruises and bandages. He was wearing one of Francis's shirts because his were too tight to hide the bulge of the bandages, They were uncomfortable to wear in that state, as well. Matthew sighed and splashed his face with cold water before cautiously trekking downstairs.

He grabbed a garbage bag from the kitchen and began to pick up all the empty bottles and trash. He cleaned up the vomit on the floor and scattered food around the living room. He tried to febreeze away the stench of weed, but it didn't do much. He shook his head. He peeked in his father's bedroom, only to find him past out. Matthew walked in and tilted the man's head to the side and tucked him into the blankets. He set a glass of water and another pair of aspirin on the side table. Sure that Arthur was indeed out cold, Matthew grabbed a warm washcloth ad wiped up his father's face with it.

Despite the fact that his father hated him, Matthew still felt obligated to care for him. He felt a need to make sure he was alive and not dying. Matthew had only heard horror stories about the foster system, especially for older kids like him. He supposed Alfred could possibly take custody of him, and Francis as well, but the chances were slim. When it came to orphans, the court preferred couples and people on a special list over the people that actually cared about the child. At least Matthew knew how his father worked. He knew his weak points, his strong points, when to stay away, everything. A new person meant he'd have to figure it all out again. And Matthew was certain that he wouldn't be able to handle that. So he took care of his father and tried to mask up his life.

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"Francis, have you talked to Alfred lately?" Matthew stood in the back of the store with the drink cooler, refilling it with soda. Francis was in the back room, doing paperwork.

"Alfred? Yes, he calls every week or so to ask me how you're doing. And we chit chat about things."

"Does Alfred know that you offered to help me become a prostitute?" Matthew held his breath when he heard Francis freeze. But the man recomposed himself and continued writing.

"No, he doesn't. Why are you asking so many questions, mon cher?"

"Because he said that he knew that I wasn't a prostitute because he talked to you."

"What in the world did you say to trigger _that _conversation?"

"All I did was tell him that I'd give Father's lawyer guy a blowjob to make him sway in our favor rather than Father's," Matthew sighed. "Was that crossing the line?"

"Yes, with Alfred, it was more than crossing the line. It was running 300 miles in from the line." Francis sighed. "Matthieu, you have to understand how much Alfred cares about you. You have to understand what he's done to try to keep you innocent and as much of a normal child as possible. He gave up any trace of a normal childhood he had in order to try to preserve yours. By telling him you were willing to give some man a blowjob to make a sort of profit, you were basically taking all his efforts and hardships from the past and throwing them into a giant fire."

Matthew paused and looked up towards the back room. "What in the world are you going off about? Alfred just worked a lot when he was a teenager. That's not giving up a childhood. I'm probably going to have to work that much, too. With college coming up and being the only breadwinner right now, I think might have to go job hunting soon. Taxes don't pay themselves, you know. And I can't milk that much money off of this little place."

"Matthieu, you don't understand. Alfred worked really late hours, remember? He wouldn't come home until well past midnight, right?"

"Well yeah, but-"

"What types of job do you think go to those hours? Huh? Restaurants close at ten. Stores aren't open that late. He was too young to work in a bar or a club. What type of job do you think a thirteen-year-old does until two in the morning?"

Matthew froze, his face going pale. Everything made sense now. Francis's new job opportunity, Alfred freaking out, those nights where Alfred would go to bed late and wake up sore, why there were always an abundance of painkillers and condoms in the house. Matthew always assumed the painkillers were for beatings and the condoms were his father's, but now… Matthew shook his head though, locking away the revelation and pretending it never happened.

"He must have worked at a 24-hour fast food drive in or something then." Matthew cut Francis off as he began to speak again. "Are you the one selling drugs to Father?"

Francis was silent. Matthew scoffed. "So it is, huh? I can't believe you. Money's just money to you, isn't it?"

"No, Matthieu, please listen. I turned him down. I do not sell him drugs. But he's persistent and he threatened to sell you to the slave trade if I didn't at least tell him where there was another dealer. So I told him to go to one of my friends. But my friend only deals baby stuff. Nothing too harmful. That's why I sent him there. That's better than him finding a heroin dealer. Right?"

"He wouldn't really sell me, you know. It was an empty threat. He used to use that on Alfred all the time when we were younger."

"No, but I don't want him finding the hardcore stuff and killing you while he's high."

"Fine, I guess it's a little better than when he was just drunk all the time. But still. You promise our friend won't give him anything other than weed?"

"Eh, maybe some shrooms, but that's about his extent. Where your father gets coke is beyond me, however."

"He has a large supply under his bed from the past. It's always been there. Ever since my mom died."

"Ah." The conversation stopped and Matthew finished up with the drink cooler and hen the chips.

"Francis, can you let me a go a little early? No one's here, anyway, and it'd be nice if I could meet up with Gilbert on time for once."

"Sure, no problem. Take a twenty from the register if you want. Have fun."

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"Gil, this game is so stupid." Matthew whispered as the giant mutant octopus, which Gilbert played as, latched onto the ship.

"What are you talking about? This is so awesome!" Gilbert stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth in frustration. He couldn't get the octopus to swallow the ship whole.

"I can't believe somebody thought up a game like this."

"I can't believe you don't like it." Gilbert paused the game.

"Hey Mattie, what happened to your forehead?" Gilbert asked, motioning towards the bandage.

"Oh, I got into a fight at school is all." The lie rolled off his tongue too easily.

"You? _You _got into a fight? As in little old Matthew Kirkland got into a fight?" Gilbert didn't believe him, of course.

"Well, the other guys pick on me. Nothing new." Another one. They just kept rolling.

"Who are these ass holes? I'll beat them up for you, Mattie!" Gilbert stood up. Matthew began to panic.

"It's nothing, okay? Just don't bother, alright? Please, Gil, just calm down." Matthew started hyperventilating. Gilbert noticed and immediately switched from angry to concerned. He made Matthew sit down and handed him his inhaler.

"Okay Mattie, just calm down, I won't do anything. Sh, sh, it's okay. Really-"

"Itwasmyfather." Matthew mumbled between breaths. Gilbert stopped and moved to kneel in front of him, to look in his eyes.

"What?"

"I lied. It was my father. Not any kids at school." Matthew paused to regulate his breathing back to normal. "My father is a drunk and is now high all the time and when he's sober, he beats the shit out of me. Please don't tell anyone, though. I don't want to go into foster care. It's better if I know how my tormentor works than diving into a place where I'm completely ignorant. Please, Gil, swear to me that you won't tell."

Gilbert brushed the hair out of Matthew face, pausing over the bandage. He sighed and hugged the blonder boy. "I won't tell, Mattie, just because you asked me to." Gilbert paused, thinking hard. "You should really tell someone, though. Someone who can get you out of there, Mattie. I can't stand seeing you broken like this. I love your smile more than anything, you know that?"

Matthew only shook his head. "I can't. I only have to bear this for a little while longer and then I'll be home free. I won't be legally attached to him anymore. It'll only be five more years."

There was a thoughtful silence between the two boys. Finally, Gilbert turned towards Matthew.

"You know, Mattie, I'm such a hypocrite."

"Hm?"

"My parents pretty much hate me. I'm the eldest. I'm supposed to be handsome, athletic, smart, a good leader, creative, caring, and all these other things. But here I am, a below-grade-level student in Strategies who only sits in front of the TV all day and only doing things for myself. And I'm a mutation. I have freaking albinism. No chick will ever want to mary me. And my parents will disown me if they ever find out I'm bi. I mean, at least they don't beat me. Anymore, I mean. When I was a kid, they tried to shape me up into a perfect child and enforced that with the good old German belt. Didn't really work there. Now they just pretty much ignore me or remind me how much of failure I am. Or how much better of a son Ludwig is. I mean, they still kind of care, because I'm still their son, but they'll always be disappointed. I'm a hypocrite for telling you to better yourself when I can't even better myself. And for me, all that is is standing up to them and proving to them that I'm better than what they think I am. But I can't. So how hypocritical of me to tell you to try to get authorities in on your life to get you out of there when I can't get myself out. I guess it's easier to tell someone than to do it yourself.

Matthew slid down from the bed and sat next to Gilbert. He sighed and rested his head on Gilbert's shoulder. The boys sat there for a minute in silence, their breaths matched and even as I they both thought over their lives.

Finally, Matthew decided to speak. "You know, Gil, I'm really glad you became my friend. How perfect for fate to put together two troubled kids with family issues. It's almost kind of funny in some weird sick way. Here I was, dumping all my problems on you. You can dump your problems on me, too, you know. It should be a mutual thing."

Gilbert only laughed and ruffled Matthew's hair. "Okay, enough angst for now, SSBB. Let's do this, bro."

And with that, both boys picked up a controller and started the game.

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**R&R, please! :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm sure that you guys don't want to hear my shitty excuses OTL Well, it's been a while, but I bringing this fanfic back alive with a pretty important and eventful chapter, if I do say so myself. **

**All I'm going to say as a warning is that this story is rated M for a reason, especially in this chapter. Please refer back to the warnings in the summary before reading this chapter. Thanks, and hope you guys enjoy~**

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Matthew buried his face into his knees as a small sliver of light breached in from the creak in the doorway. The closet was dark and dusty and it made the boy's throat itch. He pulled his thin tee shirt over his mouth and nose and tried to take quieter breaths. He focused on the cool sweat slipping down from his forehead. But that was a difficult feat when he could hear the clumsy footsteps just beyond the door, the babble that spewed from familiar lips. But Matthew swallowed and clutched on tighter to his legs.

"M-Matthew! Boy, where… where are youuuu? C-c-come to d-d-daddy, Mattieeee," he slurred and stuttered out more words, but Matthew tried his best to keep the voice out of his head. He screwed his eyes shut and dug his fingers into the flesh of his arms. He froze when he heard Arthur's footsteps near the closet door and held his breath until he heard them fade away. To be sure, the boy kept still for a few more minutes, listening to make sure the silence was constant.

Hesitantly, Matthew pushed open the door. He peered out the door and breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted his father's inanimate leg peeking off the side of the couch. He quickly ran up to his room and stuffed his backpack with a handful of clothes and the little savings he had left, though it wasn't nearly anything much. He almost ran down the creaky steps, but remembered to keep quiet. Tip-toeing past his father's passed out form, he snuck into his father's bedroom.

The place was absolutely filthy. Food wrappers, empty bottles, empty pill bottles, and vomit stains. Matthew wrinkled his nose in disgust but picked his way through the mess. He stopped in front of the drawer chest and closed his eyes to think. Alfred always told him that their father kept the important things in one drawer and all of the bad things in the others. Matthew didn't want to see any of the other things his father hid in his room. Which drawer… Matthew finally decided on the last drawer on the right. He carefully pulled it open, hoping to see wads of cash, but was instead greeted by traces of powder and bottles with only a few pills in them. Matthew shook his head. No wonder his father was seeking him out. Once he was completely sobered up, he would need an outlet to help him cope with all the troubles that would resume plaguing him.

Matthew quickly shut that drawer and tried the one adjacent to it. He only saw a strip of leather and a puff of pink feathers before he slammed that one closed. Alfred was right. Some of the things Arthur kept were better left unseen. Taking a deep breath, Matthew hesitantly pulled open the drawer above the first. He was relieved when he found a shoebox filled with small bills and a few scattered twenties. Matthew grabbed what he could and ran out of the house as quickly as possible.

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"Francis! Francis, are you there? Let me in! It's me, Matthew! Mr. Francis, let me in!" Matthew pounded at the back door of the shop's building, shouting up to the open window on the second floor. He kept glancing back down the block to his own home, paranoid of his father finding him. Suddenly, he heard a creak as the his fist landed on air. Matthew looked back at the doorway.

"Matthieu, Matthieu, mon cher, I am here. Shh, calm down now. It is okay now. Come in and tell me the cause of your distress."

Francis led Matthew up the stairs into the apartment he kept above the shop. Matthew had been up here before, but he still felt awkward being in Francis's home. He sat down at the dining room table, which Francis motioned to. He closed his eyes when Francis kneeled in front of him, wiping away his tears with a tissue. The man gently gripped the sides of Matthew's face and placed a gentle kiss on the boy's forehead. Matthew tensed at the action. Francis sat next to him and held one of Matthew's hands in his own, gently stroking it with his thumb.

"Tell me what happened."

Matthew sighed. "He's sobering up and I'm terrified. I'm going to assume that by now you know how he gets when his stash runs low. I just got back from the hospital three days ago. It's too risky to be around him. If he gets to me, I'll be in pretty bad shape, but I wouldn't be able to go to the hospital without them suspecting something and sending in child services and I don't want to have to hop foster homes. As much as I hate my father and want to get out of here, at least I can read him. And not to mention the backup he has from my uncle. It's just not a good situation, so I had to get out of the house! But, I don't know what to do now and you're the first person that came up in my head and-"

"Sh, Matthieu, it is fine. You can stay here for however long you need to. And I'll talk to Arthur's dealer about getting him restocked, okay?"

Matthew's face burst into a smile as he jumped to hug Francis. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! Oh jeez, Francis, thank you so so much! I'll work extra hours! And… and… Here! Take this!" Matthew began to shuffle in his bag, pulling out the crumpled bills, but Francis caught his arm and stopped him.

"Non, mon petit, it is fine. I care deeply about your safety and this is nothing." Francis stood up and went back towards the door. "Help yourself to my kitchen. Hell, you can even help yourself to glass of wine, with all the shit going through your head right now. I don't care. You can sleep in my room. It's the last door in that hallway. I'll just sleep on the couch."

"No, I'll sleep on the couch, it's fine. I'm used to it. And I can't take your bed, that's just ridiculous."

"Alright, do what you will. I'll be out at the bar tonight with Antonio, you know, the client who offered you that job… It's still open if you want it, you know."

Matthew frowned. "No, I think I'm faring okay. I'd rather not stoop that low."

Francis shrugged. "Well, it's open. In case you ever need to stoop that low. Sometimes necessity will overpower your wills," Francis paused to slip on his shoes and jacket. "I'll be back late. Remember to help yourself. I refuse to have you starve when you're in my care." He smiled and caught Matthew's nod before he stepped out into the brisk January air.

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After Francis left, Matthew settled on the couch. It was hard and uncomfortable and he decided quickly that he disliked it. Maybe he _would_ take up Francis's offer for his bed. At least for the few hours that he was out. He turned on the television and flipped through the channels. Francis didn't have cable, but Matthew didn't really mind. It's not like they had it in their home, either. It was mostly news and informercials, but Matthew did find one channel that had TV dramas, which he sat through. After an episode of a crime drama, however, he decided to look around Francis's kitchen.

Matthew knew that one of Francis's dreams was to become a culinary chef. But, his family was from a small farm town in the French countryside and he couldn't pay for school. Despite his crushed dreams, Francis took to making his own delicacies for himself and anyone who happened to share a meal with him. The one thing he did spend good money on was the groceries he brought home. So, when Matthew opened the refrigerator to see organic and

"fresh meats, cheese, vegetables, fruits, and exotic sounding food he'd never heard of, he was astounded. Their own home consisted only of canned foods, a few shelved instant meals, and a handful of freezer food.

Matthew got to work picking out various vegetables and cheeses and selected a package of ground beef. He took out an assortment of herbs and spices. Then, he found some refrigerated lasagna noodles. It didn't take the boy long to find a proper pan and begin his work. He barely remembered how to make a proper lasagna, but he let his gut lead him in his cooking. Pretty soon, the whole apartment was filled with the aroma of melting cheese and fresh spices.

The boy ate half the pan. It was absolutely delicious, one of the most refreshing things he had eaten in a while. It was void of preservative salt and wasn't stale with freezer burn. Perhaps he would stay with Francis more often. He would feel better if he could stay there in exchange for making Francis dinner instead of freeloading. It might be a fun hobby to pick up.

Matthew wrapped up the leftover lasagna and put it in the fridge with a label. He wrote a note to tell Francis that he made him something to eat and then decided to start getting to bed. Matthew took a shower and brushed his teeth before settling in Francis's bed. He was a light sleeper, so he trusted himself to be able to tell when the door opened so he could switch to the couch. Matthew buried his face into the pillow, intoxicated by its fluffiness and it's clean linen scent. It wasn't long until he was fast asleep.

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Matthew grunted sleepily as he felt himself pushed into the plush of the comforter on Francis's bed. He shouted, jostling awake, when a weight joined him on the bed and straddled his chest. Matthew flailed his arms and opened his mouth to scream, but the person quickly smashed their lips onto the boy's. Matthew could taste the strong aura of wine drenching out the faintest hint of fine chocolate and expensive rose binaca. Matthew's eyes widened in disbelief. He tried to push the person off of him again, only to have them grab his wrists and pin them above his head. Matthew began to thrash around as much as he could.

The person pulled away and stroked the hair off of Matthew's face. The boy froze when the person leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"F-Francis...?"

"Mmm, Matthieu, you do not know how long I've wanted to do this," a familiar voice growled lowly as he began to pull off Matthew's shirt.

"No! Francis, stop! I don't want this! Stop!"

Francis yanked the boy's shirt over his head as he grinded down into the boy's body.

"No! You're freaking drunk! Get off! Get off! Francis, stop!" Francis raised his arm and swung the back of his hand to slap Matthew's cheek. The boy screeched as he felt his head twist to the side in whiplash. Francis leaned down to nibble roughly on the now exposed ear. Matthew whimpered.

"Shut up and take it, bitch. Think of this as payment for staying in my home and for everything else I've ever done for you. Ungrateful bastard." Francis turned and ripped at the button and zipper of the boy's pants. Matthew began to sob hysterically as he felt his legs bared. Francis flung the bottoms off the bed. He gently trailed his hand up the inside of Matthew's legs. When Matthew tried to keep his legs firmly together, Francis growled and turned back to his upper body.

Francis promptly shrugged off his shirt and tie. He took Matthew's wrists and tied them tightly to the bed frame above his head. Smirking, Francis stood up and undid his belt. He yanked one of Matthew's legs up and buckled it to the corner of the bed frame, ignoring Matthew's string of yelps. Francis crawled back onto the bed as he shed his pants and threw them over his shoulder.

"Please..."

Francis only laughed. He took Matthew's lips again while roughly grabbing the boy's package. Matthew struggled, but froze when Francis bit his lip painfully.

"You know, Matthieu, this wouldn't hurt as much if you stopped struggling," Francis whispered against his lips before reclaiming them. However, the comment made Matthew thrash around more. Francis pulled up and frowned. "Fine, then I will make this as uncomfortable for you as I can."

"Already done, ass hole," Matthew spat, rage spinning in his eyes. Francis slapped him again. This time, Matthew didn't make a noise in response, biting his lip to keep a noise from escaping him. If he couldn't stop Francis, then the least he could do was deny him satisfaction.

Matthew tried to detach himself from the current situation and tried to lose focus to his thoughts. He tried to remember things about Alfred. The touches were becoming fainter. He could barely feel it when Francis jammed two lubed fingers into him, rushing. He could hear himself scream and protest louder, feel himself kick at the man with his free leg, but he couldn't actually _feel_ himself. It was blurry, clouded. Instead, he focused on the memories. Alfred, Alfred, Alfred. His eyes are blue. Just like the sky on a nice sunny day. Golden wheat colored hair. And that little strangler of hair that always stood up. The way he would always swoop in and push Arthur off of him when he was already a bloodied mess. The way he would save up for months in order to be able to afford to give Matthew a half decent Christmas. The way he would tuck Matthew in at night before leaving for his night shift. The way he would come back in the latest hours of the stark night. The memories of the door opening at the odd hours and Alfred shuffling in, broken and worn out. The way he would limp into their bed and assume that Matthew was asleep. The memories of Alfred's pain and denials of it whenever Matthew tried to ask about it.

Slipping, slipping, he was slipping. The pain was sudden. He could feel again. Just as he assumed his older brother would feel every single night. But now Matthew screamed, really screamed. But this scream was different. This scream was laced in guilt and stitched with fault and sorrow. It was realization and the shame of stupidity for not realizing it sooner.

"Shut up. I haven't even put it in yet."

With that, Francis aligned his member with Matthew's arse. The boy screamed and squirmed, but Francis only held him down, shoving in to the hilt in less than a second.

Matthew began to cry. Cry because of his newfound guilt. Cry because of the pain. Cry because of the fact that he was letting Francis do this to him. The fact that he could feel the pleasure when Francis pounded roughly into his prostate. The fact that he could feel his body enjoying this. The fact that one of the few people he trusted was doing this to him and that he could never look at Francis the same way again. The fact that he had run out of adults that would save him. The fact that he was truly abandoned now.

He felt Francis shove himself deep snide him again and fill him up with his hot seed. He felt the intrusion soften, but Francis did not pull out. He hung over the boy, panting heavily. Matthew whimpered painfully as he felt Francis's member begin to harden within him again.

Matthew couldn't bear the pain again. The last thing he could remember before blacking out was Francis yelling obscenities in French.

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Matthew awoke to a gasp and a panic attack on the other side of the bed. Through groggy eyes, he could make out Francis's form scramble off of the bed and scramble for clothes. By the time Matthew blinked his vision clear, Francis was sitting hunched in the corner of the room, a look of pure shock and absolute horror on his face.

"M-Matthieu… D-did we… I mean, did I…?" His voice was in a disbelieving whisper. Tears began to pool in his eyes.

Matthew bit his lip and nodded. He gave a testing yank at his arms (which were sore as hell) and his ankle, eliciting a pained grunt when he felt the shift in his backside. Francis quickly stood up and undid the boy's bonds. He turned away shamefully.

"Matthieu, I'm so, so sorry. I-I lost control, I didn't realize… I was drunk… I can't believe I actually…"

"It's… It's…"

"You can use my shower and any of the my clothes. I'll go make some coffee."

Matthew began to sob as soon as Francis exited. He was soiled and used. Now what assets did he have left? No longer a virgin, long past innocent. He found most of his his clothes scattered around the room (pants broken at the button, shirt torn a bit, underwear missing) and pulled them on quickly. He walked quickly, wanting to get out as soon as possible. When Francis glanced at him on his way past, Matthew kept his eyes glued to his feet.

"I'm resigning," he whispered. He didn't stay to hear what Francis said. He practically ran out of the apartment and back to his own house. He jiggled the doorknob and swore when it didn't open. He left his bag with his keys at Francis's. Great. Well, there was no way he was going back there. Matthew jumped their fence and sighed in relief when he was saw an open window. He carefully climbed in. He slipped off his shoes and listened for a moment. He heard shuffling from Arthur's room. He hurried upstairs and snuggled in the blankets in the attic. His last sanctuary.

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**Soooo, just out of curiosity, did any of you guys see that coming? Well, I was really looking forward to writing this chapter because this is the turning point. It's going to be a lot more stuff happening now and it'll be more fun for me to write. Which will hopefully mean more updates~**

**Anywho, I know I said that I wouldn't give you guys lame excuses, but in my absence, I have done a few productive things.**

**First of all, when I outlined this story, all I put was "Francis drunk rapes Mattie" so I had to come up with **_**how**_** it was going to happen. I came up with seven different scenarios and wrote out five of them. And I also rewrote this scenario at least three times. If you couldn't tell, I'm a perfectionist with myself =u=**

**Also, I started migrating to AO3. My pseudo is **_**Firestixian**_**. I haven't been able to upload anything yet, though, since it's a bit glitchy. This is mainly because of the ffn bannings, but I will post here until the end! But yeah, if I get deleted, you can find my work there. I'll only upload my better works from here, though, so don't expect me to put my FMA fanfics on there ^_^'**

**And the last big thing that's been eating up my time is Homestuck, particularly cosplay. I've been into it since December, but I'm still not really into Homestuck fanfiction. Cosplay, however, is a totally different story. I've just been working on a lot of big cosplay things (one of which was my Fear no Anvil for John back around Acen. I'm currently working on my undyingumbrage Wonderstuck cosplay for a private photoshoot group). So yeah. That eats up TONS of time. **

**Oh, and one last thing. I'm always always always looking to find new RP partners! I only do literate RPs (as in, paragraph by paragraph). I also do collab fanfics (chapter by chapter). So yeah, lemme know if you want to do something with me! My Skype (main place for me to RP) is **_**animeaddict97. **_**So just add me and tell me that you want to RP. I will literally RP almost anything =u=**

_**Wait, I lied, one more big thing! If anyone would like to make me a cover image for this story (since ffn came out with all this new fancy stuff), then I will write you a oneshot or drabble of any pairing (preferably USUK, AmeCan, PruCan, or NetCan, though, since I'm most used to writing those) and theme you like, as long as it's Hetalia~ I have some of my own art that I could use, but I'm not really much of an artist OTL**_

**Remember to R&R! It encourages me to work faster because it's basically my email telling me that people actually read my shit and that I should write for you guys =u= Although, like I said, writing from here on out should be a lot easier because it's going to get a whole lot mow eventful~**

**(( Oh, and happy birthday to Alfie and late birthday to Mattie! xD FREEDOM! /shot ))**


	12. Chapter 12

_You can thank Sophie for this update. -drops the unedited chapter and runs-_

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The setting sun streamed onto Matthew's face, warming him and blinking him awake. The boy sat up and looked around, taking in his surroundings. Matthew figured that he must have fallen asleep in the attic. He sighed and decided that he should start cleaning up the house if his father was still out. The previous day's ruckus had caused a rather large mess and the boy still hadn't gotten around to cleaning it up, mostly because he had fled to Francis's and came home distressed.

The house was eerily quiet. The stale lack of sound, save for the creaks of the old house settling, the ice-cold air, combined with upturned furniture, broken glass, spilled beer, and blood stains all together scared the shit out of the thirteen-year-old. However, cleaning _had _to be done, and it just so happened that Matthew was the one who had to do it. One glance out the front window confirmed that his father was gone, along with the car.

Matthew went to the kitchen and got out the bucket, filling it with water while he went to go find the bleach and a trash bag.

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Three full trash bags, countless nicks and scrapes from broken objects, watery bleach-exposed eyes, and three hours later, Matthew got the house to look somewhat decent. Bloodstains didn't come out easily and they were missing a great deal of furniture, but that was okay. The house was livable and there was barely any signs of a recent fight.

As the boy looked over his handiwork when the door front door swung open. In the dim candlelight (for Matthew had to dispose of the broken lamps and most of the lightbulbs), Matthew could barely make out the silhouette of a man in the door. He jumped and immediately ran from the front room and towards the kitchen.

"Matthew, stop!"

The boy halted immediately and spun around to face his father. He didn't smell of a recent smoke, nor had he the aroma of alcohol disgracing his breath. Despite the signs of soberness, the boy was skeptical. Trust was definitely not something that he held close to his father's name.

"Matthew, please."

Those two desperate words stunned the boy. He froze, an icy chill shooting through him. He raised his gaze from his feet to meet the man's eyes.

Arthur Kirkland was the epitome of a used-to-be. The man wasn't particularly old, but there were certainly signs that he had grown out of his prime. Neither did the man keep proper care of himself. Stubble was growing uncontrollably around his face and his teeth were crooked and yellowed. His eyebrows, in particular, were kept untidy, the hairs left unplucked. His clothing was wrinkled and residual stains dotted the cloth sporadically.

But the main focal point was the man's eyes. They were a deep green. They shown with misery, betrayal, hurt, and most prominently, a manifestation of uncertainty and being lost. But glazing the edges were the bright green, the youthful fluorescent that once overtook the entire orb. That glint that Matthew remembered back in the fantasy-like times worlds ago, a time he called his childhood. The lining that had once, a time ago, disappeared completely overnight and was now slowly crept back into dead eyes.

Matthew felt his eyes begin to water before he felt foreign arms encase him.

He stopped moving. He stopped thinking. He stopped breathing.

"Matthew, Matthew, my boy… it's all my fault, isn't it? My god… I- I'm sorry… Though I doubt that will fix anything. What have I done? What type of father am I? What type of _man_ am I? Oh my god, my baby boy… I'm sorry, Marie, I'm so sorry… your son. My son. _Our _son. The last piece of you, of us. I broke my promises, I broke them and it's all my fault."

Arthur choked on his own sobbing, gripping the boy before him. Said child held his own breath.

"Father, let go of me!" He shouted, pushing the man away from him. Matthew's eyes widened in confusion and fear. He backed up slowly until he felt himself press against a wall, to which he slid down and curled into himself upon the floor. He gripped his knees and compacted into a tight ball. He lifted his head after a moment to gaze at the man he called his father, who still kneeled weakly on the floor where the boy once stood.

"What… what are you playing at?" Matthew's whisper was barely audible.

Arthur frowned noticeably. His eyes, already pink, began to water again. The sight of it almost broke Matthew's heart.

Matthew barely picked up a whispered "What have I done?" before he began to cry as well.

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At a decent time later, Matthew found himself on the couch with a man that was just about a stranger to him as a person on the street.

"Your mother had such a lovely voice. I'd bet that yours is just as lovely. Perhaps we'll sign you up for lessons one day. That would be nice, having music in this house again," Arthur said more to himself than to the boy that he held in his arms. Matthew nodded, but it was obvious that he paid no heed to his father's conversation. His mind lay elsewhere.

A comfortable silence filled the room as Arthur stroked the boy's delicate arm. However, Matthew's head still spun. He had to know.

"So, you know then. About last night," Matthew blurted out what had been on his mind. What he had figured out. And what he knew was the reason his father was a completely different person. But Matthew's suspicions had to be confirmed for his own sanity. The truth would probably confirm that the coddling would discontinue after Arthur got over the shock of last night's events. Since good things never last very long.

But for now, Arthur hung his head in shame and hugged the boy closer to him. Matthew sighed.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"For what?" Matthew shot at him, anger licking at his words. After everything that Arthur Kirkland did to his son, he chose to apologize for something he didn't even do.

Arthur stared at the boy, stunned.

"It's my fault that that bloody frog touched_ my_ son. If… If I had kept my promise to Marie and took care my sons properly and didn't drink myself into a stupor, then you wouldn't have even formed a relationship with such… such _trash!_ If.. If I watched over you like she entrusted me to, then I wouldn't have chased you out of the house and into the arms a man who dare touch what's mine!" Arthur was up and fuming now. The table turned over again. But it was different from the night before. He got a handle on himself and gripped the table with white knuckles, huffing in bursts to try to calm himself.

"I see," and with narrowed eyes and a cynical mind, Matthew ran to his room, slamming the door behind him. How terribly, terribly cruel to think of a person as nothing more than property. Plain property. No different than a child and their toy. Beaten down, worn out, neglected by its owner. But when another tries to play with the toy, it's not okay. It's not right. The toy, very briefly, becomes cherished by its owner. The child's poor behavior, usually projected on the unloved toy, is then redirected toward the opposing child. No sharing allowed. The toy is mine and I'm the only one who may play with it. Don't you dare place a single hand on what's mine.

Matthew punched the wall, more upset than he was the previous night. It was all just a game. A game where he was the one being played.

Hell, he should send Francis a thank you card. He could imagine it now.

"Dearest Mister Francis," Matthew snarled, thinking aloud.

"Thank you so much for raping me and traumatizing me and betraying the very last bit of trust I had in people because now my father is jealous and realized a small part of how much of a shit father he is, but you know, it really sucks that he still doesn't acknowledge the fact that he beats me and makes me feel like shit but at least he's somewhat remorseful for pushing me out to the point where I was raped by someone that I trusted more than him. Ain't it great?"

With a sick afterthought, he added, "with much love, Matthew fucking Kirkland."

Yes that would do lovely. And he'll tack it to the front door of the mini-mart. For everyone to see how wonderful Mr. Francis was and how gracious he was for helping out the poor little neighborhood kids. He'd be the town's fucking hero with such a plaque on his door.

Matthew crumbled into himself, curling into a ball. He sobbed into the sleeves of his hoodie, staining them with tears. His father still didn't care for him, his brother ducked out on him, his real father figure was a traitorous creep, and now he was left unemployed on top of it all. Wasn't life just fucking dandy?

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_I actually wrote most of this chapter a year ago, so apologies for the harsh style change._


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